Big Bad World
by ggo85
Summary: Another in the James Henry series. JH has a bad day . . . that takes a turn for the worse and brings back unpleasant memories for all.
1. Chapter 1

**Rating: G **

**Setting: The story takes place approximately ten years after S5E8. It's the third in the series of James Henry vignettes. This story is another snapshot in time; it's the same JH as in my prior stories but at another moment in his young life.**

**Thank you to my terrific beta, jd517! She helps me understand the inner workings of the minds of young children, reminds me of the importance of "British-isms" in a British story, and makes perfect suggestions along the way. If any errors remain, it's only because I can't stop fiddling!**

**Disclaimer: The story and characters of Doc Martin belong to Buffalo Pictures. This work of fan fiction is for personal amusement only and no infringement of any legal rights is intended.**

* * *

I wanted to be great at something. Not at everything, mind you. Just something.

It seemed that all my mates did really good at whatever they tried. Geoff was so good at the piano that the head teacher let him play at the Christmas recital. Cameron could do maths like no one else – last year he went to a contest in London and won third prize. Trevor was a whiz at computer games; I swear he could beat the rest of us with one eye closed. Kieran was already so big and strong that he could . . . well, beat up anybody he wanted to, if he wanted to which, thankfully, he didn't. And Eddie, whose mum insisted we call Edward but we all still called Eddie . . . Okay, maybe Eddie wasn't all that great at anything either. That didn't make me feel any better.

Even the girls were good at lots of stuff. Margaret seemed to be able to spell any word the rest of the class could think of. Cassie's watercolors were on display in the town library. And Ava was the best girl football player in our class, better even than some of us guys.

And, as for me . . . it wasn't that I was terrible at everything. In fact, I was okay at most things. I did well enough in school, my marks putting me close to the top of my class. I could keep up with my mates at sports. On the other hand, I wasn't too good at music and, after two years of piano lessons, even my parents knew I'd never be a musician. I couldn't sing and never got a decent part in school plays.

When I complained, Mum and Dad reminded me that I was only ten and promised I would find my "niche," as they called it, at some point. Dad claimed he hadn't realized he wanted to be a doctor until he was in upper school. Of course, even at my age he'd been really, really good at maths and science – Mum had told me so one night when I was complaining about my homework. They were probably right, maybe _some_ day I'd be really good at _some_ thing. Still, it would be nice to be better than my mates in at least _one_ thing . . . if I couldn't be better overall, maybe I could have just one minute when everyone thought I'd done something great.

If I got really, really lucky, that chance might come today. Our football team was playing in the semi-finals of the Kernow league. One thing I'd learned playing sports was that you never knew when the ball would bounce your way and give you the chance to be hero for a day. That would be enough for me for now, until I found my "niche."

Football was yet another thing that I did decently. I wasn't the fastest guy on the team or the best. Thankfully, I also wasn't the worst either. I was quick enough and good enough so as not to have anyone notice me for the wrong reasons. Rarely did I make any fantastic, game-winning plays. Since I played center defenseman, typically the last player between the would-be-scorer and the goalie, that wasn't too likely anyway. I also usually didn't make any major screw-ups, which was why I started at my position. All in all, as with everything else I tried, in football I was okay.

The best thing about football was that I liked it. I liked running around in the grass, liked breathing the fresh air, and liked being part of a team, especially when we won. And we won a lot, mostly because we had a pretty good team. David Torrance, our striker, was first-rate, and some of the secondary school coaches were already talking to him about going there when he was old enough. And Michael Lewis, one of our midfielders, put the rest of us to shame with his speed and the way he could control the ball. His headers weren't bad either.

They were a large part of the reason our team was playing for a spot in the league championship on this cold but really sunny Saturday morning. If we won today, we'd be in the finals, competing for the trophy. The trophy itself was huge and every member of the winning team got one. Just the thought of having one on my desk brought a smile to my face. Forget my "niche," I'd settle for the monster trophy.

Today's game was even more special because Mum and Dad were both here to watch me play. Mum came to all of my matches. Dad came when he could but Saturday morning conflicted with his surgery so it wasn't all that often he was here. He'd explained more than once that he needed to hold surgery on Saturdays to see patients who worked during the week. I understood, sort of. Still, I was always excited to see him on the sidelines on the days he could make it.

I'd hoped that he might come to today's match and, when he told me he'd canceled his surgery to be here, I was so excited I'd actually jumped up and down. He'd smiled and exchanged a glance with Mum, which made me wonder if the whole thing had been her idea. It didn't matter. He said he would be here and here he was. Dad was always easy to spot because he was the only man who came to Saturday games in a suit.

I think the coaches liked having Dad around in case anyone got hurt, even though that usually didn't happen. They probably also were happy that, unlike some of the mums and dads, he didn't get too excited when things went badly or if I didn't play as much as some other bloke. Mum tended to get a bit more worked up. I think that, since she'd stopped being the head teacher, she was a bit more likely to speak her mind.

Most of today's game had been played on the other team's end of the field and the ball had only come my way a couple of times. Even though we'd been on offense most of the game, we still hadn't scored a single goal. That was the bad news. The good news was that the other team hadn't scored either. So with only about ten minutes left, any score would probably be enough to win. If one of us didn't score a goal, we'd go to penalty kicks. That was okay, but it was always more fun to win straight out.

I refocused on the game as the other team was finally on offense and headed toward our goal. Our midfielder was all tangled up with their striker, trying to take away the ball. I glanced around, just as the coach had taught, making sure I saw the whole field so I could figure out where the ball was likely to go next and get ready to intercept it. Seeing two guys from the other team coming up quickly on my right side, I slid right, putting myself in position to break up a pass. I could almost sense the goalie behind me keeping a close eye on things. At the rate we were scoring and this late in the game, a single point could well make the difference between winning and losing.

The striker broke free, dribbling the ball forward. He was now only a few feet away, moving quickly with his eyes on our goal. I rushed toward him. If he got past me, he'd have a clear shot at our goal. I ran forward, trying to keep one eye on the ball and the other on him. At the last possible second, I struck out hard with my right foot. It wasn't a perfect kick, but it was enough. The striker lost control of the ball and, with a second kick, I was able to send it halfway across the field, where my teammate was able to kick it far into the opposing team's side of the field.

I breathed heavily and sighed with relief. I'd done my job. I heard someone calling my name loudly and looked over to the sidelines. Mum was jumping up and down, clapping her mitten-covered hands. Even my dad clapped and I swore he even smiled at me. It wasn't the great play I'd hoped for, but I'd at least made my parents proud of me.

Not more than a minute later, with the action still at the other end of the field, the ref blew his whistle to stop play. When the game didn't start up again right away, it was obvious something was wrong. I saw my dad run onto the field and knew someone had been hurt. All of us rushed forward to see whether it was one of our teammates.

As soon as I realized the injured player was one of the strikers from the other team, I felt like pumping my fist; just for a second I was excited that we'd now have a better shot at winning. And then, just as quickly, felt ashamed for even thinking that way. As coach said, we always wanted to beat the other team at full strength.

Dad was already working on the boy's knee, bending and twisting it. The kid must be hurt bad because he was crying like the dickens. One of the kid's teammates told him to stop acting like a baby. My dad told him to shut up, which made me kind of proud.

Dad stood up and talked to the coach. I heard something about "ligament damage" and "MRI" and then Dad said the boy would need to go to hospital.

Dad looked around and, upon seeing me, drew me off to the side. "James, the boy may have seriously injured his knee. His parents aren't here so I need to go with him to hospital."

"You have to leave?" I asked, already knowing the answer. It was always the answer. Dad's patients always came first.

"Yes, I do. I'm sorry."

"But it's our big game and if we win—"

"James," Mum said, coming up behind us and putting her hand on my shoulder. "You know your father would stay if he could."

"I'm sure you'll do just as well without my being here," he said.

I shrugged. "Yeah. I'm sure."

Mum smiled gamely. "I'll just have to cheer twice as hard," she said.

Behind me, the referee was calling everyone back to the game. I walked back to my position on the field as my dad, medical bag in hand, walked off.


	2. Chapter 2

Several hours later Martin finally finished up at the hospital. The orthopedic surgeon suspected the boy had sustained a torn ACL and would order an MRI in the morning to confirm the diagnosis. Once the child's had parents arrived, Martin hopped into a taxi for the ride home. On the way, he called Louisa to find out how James' football game had turned out. Best to be prepared when he walked in the door.

Louisa sounded unexpectedly glum. "Not so well," she reported crisply.

"Was someone else hurt?" he asked, suddenly fearful. "Not James?"

"No, he's fine. Well, not so fine actually."

Martin breathed a quick sigh of relief that at least his son wasn't injured. "So, what's the problem?"

Louisa sighed heavily. "It was near the end of the match. If you remember, the score was 0-0. It looked like the other team was about to score. And then James—"

Suddenly, the call dropped and Martin grimaced as he realized the taxi had hit a dead spot on the moor. Mobile coverage would be sketchy at best for the next few miles. He'd just have to wait until he was home to learn the rest of the story.

After the taxi had dropped him off, Martin let himself into the house. Several years ago, they'd moved to a larger cottage down the street from the surgery. Now the old cottage functioned solely as a surgery, finally somewhat separating Martin's home life from his work and giving them all a bit more room. Once inside the house, he was somewhat surprised not to see James in one of his usual spots, either in front of the tellie or in the library playing on the computer. Given the rare beautiful day, the boy was most likely outside with some of his friends. Setting down his medical bag, Martin continued into the kitchen to find Louisa preparing dinner. Cornish hen and potatoes, he noted in passing.

"Where's James?" he asked.

"Upstairs," Louisa said with a pointed sigh and an upward flick of her eyes.

He followed her gaze. "On a Saturday afternoon? Whatever for?"

It was the first day without rain in more than a week, although rain was predicted again for this evening. And the temperature was unusually mild for a Cornish autumn. On his way home, Martin had passed streets and playgrounds filled with children taking advantage of the fresh air. James should be outside as well.

Louisa shrugged. "He's sulking."

Martin frowned. Children, and especially James Henry, never ceased to confound him. He poured himself a glass of water. "And why exactly is he sulking?"

She placed the Cornish hen into the pot. "He thinks he cost his team the football match today."

Martin tried to imagine the ways this could have happened and just as quickly gave up. "Did he?"

"Of course not."

Martin wasn't entirely following this conversation. "Then why does he think so?"

"He's convinced he let the other team score the winning goal." Louisa closed the oven door then grabbed her cup of tea from the counter and dropped into one of the kitchen chairs. "Remember that great play he had just before you had to leave – when he stopped the other team from scoring?"

Martin nodded. "Yes." It had been a great moment for James – singlehandedly preventing a potential goal.

"Well, almost the exact same thing happened after you left, when there was only about a minute left in the game. Only this time, James slipped going for the ball, the striker ran past him, and scored. And they lost 1-0."

"Well, that's unfortunate, but it wasn't the only play of the game, or the only mistake, I'm sure."

"I know that and you know that. James doesn't. And the fact that his teammates didn't speak to him afterwards didn't help."

"Surely they don't blame him—"

"Martin, you know how children are. Or, maybe you don't. In any event, they don't blame him, not exactly. And they'll probably forget all about it by next week, if not tomorrow. Still, at the moment, it was all on him and he's not feeling too great about the whole thing. He could use some moral support," she added.

"What kind of moral support?" Martin asked, already dreading her answer.

"A pep talk from his father."

Oh no. He was good at many things, but "pep" was not among them. "Whatever would I say to him?"

Louisa gave him a knowing look. "I'm sure you'll think of something."

Martin dithered; he wasn't sure at all. What would he say to make James feel better about what had happened in the football match? If anything, he was likely to make the boy feel worse.

"Martin, just talk to him," Louisa encouraged. "He needs some . . . I don't know, reassurance, maybe."

"Certainly you—"

"From his father," she finished, pointing him toward the stairs.

* * *

For some reason, Louisa seemed to believe that certain situations, like this one, called for a "father's touch." Why? It was a question Martin had asked himself many times and had asked Louisa more than once. He wondered not for the first time what qualifications he had to be the father of a ten-year-old boy, or any child for that matter. Nothing in his background had prepared him for this, and his own father had definitely provided a less than adequate role model.

He could deal with sick patients – more or less. And, in the more than ten years he and Louisa had been together, he'd managed not to mess things up with her too badly or too often. He wasn't a perfect husband and most of the village probably considered Louisa a saint for sticking with him. Nonetheless, they'd managed to make a go of it as a couple.

This father-thing was something else entirely. It hadn't been all that difficult the first few years when the most difficult things to deal with were crying and diaper changes. Now that James Henry had a mind of his own, it was . . . hard. Hard to understand what his son was thinking and even harder to figure out what to say in response to whatever problem the boy was facing at the moment.

Take today. How in the world was he supposed to know what to say to a boy who'd had a bad day at football? Martin had never played football, at least not to the extent he actually cared who won or lost. He'd spent his time on his studies. The only sport he'd ever pursued with any interest was pugilism and that only because his father had virtually forced him into it – to "toughen him up," or something like that.

Martin had been a decent boxer, basically because he was big and strong and thus could take a punch. It hadn't hurt that he was surprising quick and light on his feet for a boy his size. Still, he'd had no real interest in the sport beyond keeping his father from nagging him about being a wimp.

And thus he had no idea what he would say to his son who was apparently distraught about some stupid football match. For goodness sake, it was a bunch of 10-year-olds, not the World Cup! How bad could it be? At times like this, he rather wished he believed in God so that he could ask a higher power to help him through the next moments. Unfortunately, as a non-believer, he was on his own.

Martin inhaled deeply and blew out a long breath before squaring his shoulders and approaching James' bedroom door. It was tightly closed. He considered opening it, then thought better of it. Best to gauge the boy's mood first.

Martin rapped his hand lightly on the door. "James?" he called out softly. Receiving no response, he tried again, louder this time. "James!"

There was no sound from inside the room. Martin felt a surge of relief. With any luck, James was sleeping and thus he could put off the "chat" that Louisa so desired until later in the evening. Still, he'd better check just to be sure James hadn't also hurt himself in the game. Given the mood Louisa had described, the boy likely wouldn't have mentioned any injury.

Martin twisted the knob and pushed open the door. And immediately frowned. The room was empty. Stepping inside, he flicked on the lights, his eyes roaming the small space. The bed was freshly made, although there was an indentation that suggested James had probably lain down at some point during the day. Martin stepped over to the desk. The computer was shut off.

He quickly crossed to the lavatory. The door was open and a glance inside revealed it too was empty. A knot started to form in his chest. Where was James?

Martin ran down the steps, forcing himself to be calm. His son was no doubt . . . somewhere.

"Louisa," he said, as his feet hit the landing. "Louisa! Where's James?"

Louisa came out from the kitchen, a dishtowel in one hand. She frowned at him. "What do you mean? He's in his room."

"No, he is not."

"What? Of course he is. Where else would he be?" She dropped the dishrag and rushed past him up the steps, calling out as she did so. "James! James Henry! Where are you?" As with his own calls, her were met with silence.

"James!" she persisted. "Answer me this moment, young man. This is not funny."

Martin heard Louisa's panicked rush through the upstairs rooms – James' room, the guestroom, their room, the lavatories. It took only a few seconds.

"Martin!" she cried from the top of the staircase. The terror in her voice was palpable. "He's gone!" Her voice turned to a wail. "Oh no, this can't be happening again."

There was no doubt in Martin's mind that Louisa was flashing back to a decade ago when the horrid Mrs. Tishell had abducted their baby. The fact that James had been returned unharmed later the same day hadn't made the situation any less traumatic. And while time had dulled the horror of the moment, the thought that their child could be snatched away in an instant was never far from their minds.

"Louisa, let's not panic." _Yet_, he finished silently. "It's a beautiful Saturday afternoon. Perhaps he's outside playing or visiting one of his friends."

She ran back down the stairs. "He wouldn't leave without telling me."

"He might have forgotten." After all, James was still a child and even he knew that children sometimes ran out of the house on an impulse, forgetting to tell their parents their destination.

"He would have called me."

"His mobile is still on his desk." Martin recalled seeing it in his brief search of the boy's room. They'd bought James a mobile with limited service. He was to carry it at all times and use it only to contact his parents. The fact he hadn't taken it was troubling. "You know how children are," Martin said soothingly. "He probably just forgot to take it with him."

"Right," she said exhaling loudly. "You're probably right." To Martin's ears, it sounded as if she were trying to convince herself. "He probably went to someone's house. Maybe Timothy Smythe. Or Geoff Tydings."

"You should call them." Even as he spoke the words, Martin had his own doubts. James wasn't a perfect child, but he was generally obedient. They'd both talked to him about making sure they knew his whereabouts and he'd been good about keeping them informed. For him to take off in the middle of the day without telling his mother . . . it didn't make sense.

Louisa rushed to the phone and started dialing. Martin returned to his son's room, again noting that it had an eerily peaceful quality. The windows were tight and locked. Nothing seemed out of place or disturbed. It was as if James had simply vanished. Just like a decade ago. Damn.

Martin returned downstairs and checked the coat cupboard. His son's overcoat and MacIntosh hung side-by-side. It was an unusually warm fall day, he reminded himself and tried to take comfort from the fact James wouldn't have needed a jacket if he'd expected to return before dark. Maybe he _was_ simply at a friend's home or playing in one of the parks.

He returned to the sitting room, catching Louisa's worried eyes as she spoke into the phone. As she placed call after call, her voice grew increasingly frantic.

"Thank you, Marilyn," she said, clearly trying to maintain a conversational tone. "Yes, I know how boys are. Yes, I'm sure we'll find him."

She hung up the phone and looked up at him, a tear starting to roll down her cheek. "He's not there! I've tried his best friends. He's not anywhere! Oh, God Martin. What's happened to him?"

"I don't know."

"If he's been . . . taken . . . not again. I can't go through that again."

The words stung. It couldn't happen again. There was no possibility that Mrs. Tishell had returned; the horrid woman had died of a myocardial infarction several years ago. And as bodmin as some of Portwenn's residents might be, Martin couldn't think of anyone who would want to harm their son.

"Louisa, let's not jump to conclusions—"

"Martin! Our son is gone and we have no idea where he is. James wouldn't just walk off on his own—" Her face took on a look of determination. "I'm calling Joe Penhale."

As if that would do any good. As far as Martin was concerned, the decade Penhale had spent as the local PC hadn't improved his police skills one iota. What could he do to find their son?

For one of the few times in his life, Martin felt impotent. He was James Henry's father; he should be doing _something_. The problem was that he had no idea what to do. Louisa had already called the boy's friends. He could wander the village looking for James, but where to start? It was hard to be logical, Martin realized, when one was terrified.

"He's on his way over," Louisa said a moment later.

"Who?"

"Joe. He said he'd be right over."

"Right."

"Well, Martin, what do _you_ want to do?" Louisa's voice cracked. "James is gone."

"I know that."

"What are you going to do?"

"What do you want me to do?"

"I want you to find him."

"And how do you suggest I do that?"

"I don't know. I just . . . Oh, Martin, I'm so scared."

I am too, Martin wanted to say. Instead, he took Louisa in his arms. "It'll be alright. I'm sure he's fine. We'll find him."


	3. Chapter 3

Martin noted that Penhale, to his credit, arrived at their home less than ten minutes after he'd been called.

"You reported a missing person," the PC said, stepping into the parlor and pulling out his notepad.

Oh good Lord. The last thing they needed was the man's officiousness. Martin shook his head in disgust.

Before Martin could say anything to voice his annoyance, Louisa spoke up. "Joe, our son is missing."

"And by "son", do you mean," and here Penhale paused to look at his notepad, "one James Henry Ellingham, of this address?"

"You know she does, you dolt. What other son do we have?" Martin asked acidly.

Penhale pursed his lips. "Right. Are you sure he's missing?"

Martin could have sworn that Penhale looked slightly petrified at the thought of doing real police work. "Of course we're sure. Louisa wouldn't have called you otherwise," he added, making sure Penhale realized that calling the PC hadn't been _his_ idea.

"When did you last see him?"

Louisa spoke up. "About two o'clock. James said he was going to his room. I was cleaning up and working on dinner. Martin came home around four and went upstairs and James was . . . he wasn't there." Louisa stood next to them, wringing her hands, as her voice reached a hysterical pitch.

"Were you here all afternoon?" Penhale asked.

"Yes."

"Did you leave the house at any time?"

Louisa took a moment before answering. "No . . . no, I didn't. I'm sure I was here the entire time. Downstairs mostly."

"Did you hear or see anything unusual?"

She shook her head decisively. "No, nothing. It was a normal Saturday afternoon."

"Have you checked with his friends? You know how kids are—"

"Of course we checked with his friends," Martin interjected impatiently. "We're not idiots."

"Right." Penhale looked chastised. "I'll just have a look at the crime scene."

"Crime!" Louisa put a hand to her mouth. "Joe, do you think someone might have made off with him—?"

"Now, Louisa," Penhale said, "Let's not get excited. Yet."

Penhale followed them up the stairs and proceeded to make his own search of the boy's room, mumbling to himself as he did so. "No sign of forced entry; no sign of struggle." Apparently finished, he turned back to them. "Maybe it will help to retrace your steps – that's what I do when I can't find my car keys."

"We're not missing our car keys," Martin replied sharply.

Penhale gulped. "Right. Tell me what happened with James today – what did he do, where did you see him last, that sort of thing."

Louisa answered. "He had a football game this morning and then we came home and had lunch. He went to his room and . . . that's it."

"Did anything happen out of the ordinary?"

"What do you mean?" Martin asked.

Penhale's eyes narrowed. "You know, strangers lurking around the house, mysterious callers, suspicious packages delivered in the post, that sort of thing."

Louisa shook her head. "No."

"Was James upset about anything?"

"Of course not—" Martin answered.

"Well, there was the football match," Louisa said. When Penhale gave her a questioning look, she continued. "He had a bad game. You know how it is with children sometimes. He felt he'd let down his teammates. Wouldn't even let me take him for ice cream afterwards."

"So he was upset?"

"Yes," Louisa answered. "And the fact that Martin had to leave the match to go with a patient to hospital . . . he was unhappy about that as well."

"What's that got to do with anything?" Martin demanded.

"Martin, we're trying to find our son. Anything that will help Joe—"

"I don't see how that will help—"

"Easy, Doc." Penhale held up a single hand. "Page one of the police handbook - every little bit of information helps." He scribbled in his notebook then looked up. "Can you think of anyone who had it in for you?"

Half the village, Martin thought irritably, then corrected himself. He and the citizens of Portwenn had long ago reached a détente. Martin had stayed here, as their GP, because he wanted to. The locals might not always like him but they respected him and that had become good enough – for both sides.

"No," he replied truthfully and Louisa quickly concurred.

"Well, there are no signs of criminal activity. It's not easy to enter a house and make off with a ten-year-old boy without causing some sort of disturbance. Since you were here all day, Louisa, and didn't hear or see anything unusual, I suspect that he left of his own accord. Probably upset about the football game and wanting a bit of time to himself."

Martin had to admit that, for once, what Penhale said made sense, even if it was completely out of character for James to run off.

"No doubt he'll be back once it starts to get dark. In the meantime," Penhale continued, "I'll make sure the village is alerted to keep an eye out for him. And I'll make finding him my number one priority."

_That makes me sleep better,_ Martin thought with disdain. Aloud he said, "I'll help you look for him."

"I'll come too," Louisa chimed in.

Penhale shook his head. "One of you needs to stay here if . . ." He swallowed hard. "I mean _when_ James comes home or calls. Or—" Penhale seemed to swallow his sentence.

"Or the kidnappers call," Louisa finished, swallowing more tears.

"Uh, yes."

"So what are you planning to do to find our son?" Martin demanded.

"There are certain places runaways frequent that I want to check out."

"Our son is not a runaway," Martin said indignantly.

"Let's hope he is," Penhale replied ominously, his face betraying the fact that he was considering other, horrible scenarios. He glanced at Louisa and then back at Martin, then scribbled a note. "I'll check back with you in a few hours."

The minute the door had closed on Penhale, Louisa turned to him. "Martin, where is he? Where's James? What's happened to him?"

Martin knew she wanted reassurance, not an answer. Since reassurance wasn't his strong suit, he gave the only answer he could. "Penhale's likely correct. James probably went off on his own accord."

It seemed unlikely that their son would suddenly take off in the middle of a Saturday afternoon. The alternative, however, was unthinkable.

"Went off where?"

"Hopefully not too far. Everyone knows him. Once Penhale puts out the word, someone will see him and call us."

"Why, Martin? Why would he just run off?"

"I don't know." And he didn't. For the life of him, Martin had no clue why their well-adjusted, intelligent son might suddenly take off on his own in the middle of the day. It didn't make sense.

Louisa sighed heavily. "It's my fault, isn't it?"

"What?"

"You're not saying it, Martin, but I know what you're thinking. If I'd watched him more closely, checked on him more often . . ."

He understood the guilt Louisa was heaping on herself. It was the same he'd felt when he'd left baby James in the care of Mrs. Tishell. Even though it had seemed the right thing to do at the time, he couldn't help but feeling guilty when his actions had led to their son being abducted.

The same was true now. James frequently spent time alone in his room playing on the computer or building with his Legos or putting together model planes. There had been no reason to suspect today would be any different from those other days. And yet it had been.

He shook his head. "Louisa, I'm not thinking any such thing."

"I just left him there, on his own. I should have gone up sooner . . ."

"Louisa, stop. This isn't your fault."

"Then whose fault is it that our son is gone? We don't know where he is. Maybe someone took him—"

"Don't say that!"

"Why not? It happened before."

"And you still blame me for that, don't you?"

"Of course not."

"Then why did you bring it up?"

"I don't know. I . . . just. Oh, Martin, I don't know what to do. It's getting colder and James doesn't have his coat or his mobile. Even if he is out on his own, what's going to happen to him?"

"I'll go look for him."

"Where?"

"I don't know. Where do you think he might go?"

The question seemed to focus Louisa and calm her down a bit. "I don't know either. The school maybe. Or the overlook – you know how he likes to watch the boats come in and out of the harbor. Oh, Martin, I don't know!"

Honestly, neither did Martin. Where would a ten-year-old boy go? Where would _their_ ten-year-old son go? It was worse than a needle in a haystack. It was a small child, improperly dressed, out somewhere in the middle of . . .

Martin took a deep breath to calm himself. There was only so far a boy could walk in the time he'd been gone. There was the village of Portwenn and a few surrounding farms. To get anywhere else, he'd have to take a taxi or a bus and, without any money, those weren't likely possibilities. Of course, someone in a car could have picked him up . . . Martin didn't even want to think about that possibility. No, for now, he would assume that Penhale was right – James had gone off on foot. Now they just had to find him before the weather turned cold and night descended.


	4. Chapter 4

I wasn't sure why I'd done it . . . run out of the house, that is, especially without telling Mum where I was going. Yeah, on second thought, I did. I just needed to be alone for a bit.

I'd already relived that stupid football play a hundred times already. We were tied at 0-0. All we had to do was play out the final minute and we'd go to penalty kicks. It kind of sucked to end a game that way but we had decent kickers on our team so we'd had more than a fighting chance.

All of a sudden, one of their guys stole the ball and cleared it all the way to our end. Their forward controlled it and started running toward our goal. It surprised the heck out of everyone, and most of the guys from both teams were still at the other end of the field.

Which meant it was him versus me. If I let him by, he'd have a clear shot at our goal, and one-on-one with the goalie was never good odds. For the goalie, that is. All I had to do was get my foot or body or something in the way long enough to slow him down and give my guys time to get back and help me.

He was so fast, running down the field with the ball and eyeing our goal. I ran towards him, my eyes going back and forth between the ball and his body. He had to turn at some point to take a shot. The only question was when.

If I didn't commit, he'd simply go by me and have a straight shot on goal. I had to do something. Now. I took two more steps forward, planted my left foot, kicked out with my right . . .

My eyes closed and the pit in my stomach grew at the memory. I was flat on my can and, before I could even look around, heard the sound of cheering. The other team was celebrating, running around with faces of joy and satisfaction. Their parents and friends were cheering, clapping and giving each other high-fives. Our team stood around limp, lifeless, and dejected.

I got to my feet, almost wishing I'd been injured as that would provide some excuse. But no, I was fine. No one came up to me or tried to console me. The only thing I was supposed to do on this stupid field was slow down the other guy. I'd had the perfect chance and I'd missed. Pure and simple. I'd slipped and he'd rushed past me and made the easy goal. Game over.

I'd cost our team the game. Me. Because of me there would be no championship game. No trophy for my desk. Nothing.

After the game, after we'd shaken hands and exchanged "good games" with the other team, the winning team, the coach had called us together. He'd told us how we won as a team and lost as a team and that no one play and . . . blah, blah, blah. All rubbish. It was as if every eye was on me, except the guys who were so disgusted they couldn't bear to look at me. I just wanted the coach to shut up so I could get away from him, from my teammates, from this game . . . from everything.

And then there were the parents, my Mum included, who were all trying to cheer us up even though they seemed to be more miserable than we were. I suppose they felt they had to, that it was their jobs as parents or something. The only one in the whole bunch who actually seemed happy was Kippers. She was Billie's dog, one of those little wiener dogs with the long backs. When Billie, our goalie, ran off the field, she ran up to him, jumping up and down as if he'd just won the game, not lost it. If anyone needed cheering up more than me, it was him, and Kippers was doing a mighty fine job of it. Of course, the dog was also the only one who didn't know we'd lost the game – and who didn't care.

When we were finally allowed to leave and I thought I'd finally be alone with my miserable thoughts, Mum only made it worse. The whole drive home she told me how well I'd played, how proud she was of me, that there'd be a next year and blah, blah, blah.

Yeah, Mum, I wanted to say, I played great. Other than losing the game for my team, I played just great.

I knew she was trying to make me feel better. The problem was that I didn't want to feel better, not now at least. She even wanted to take me for ice cream – like I'd won the game or something.

When we got home, she'd fixed me lunch. I wasn't hungry and she finally gave up trying to get me to eat.

"It's such a lovely day," she'd said while clearing the dishes, "why don't you go outside for a bit. Some fresh air's bound to cheer you up."

"I don't want to," I'd said defiantly and headed for my room.

"Oh, James. What's the matter with you? I hope your father can sort you out when he gets home."

I froze halfway up the stairs. Dad would be back from hospital soon and no doubt he'd want to hear the whole story. Problem was, I didn't want to tell him the story. If he hadn't gone off to hospital, if he'd stayed at the match, he'd know the whole story anyway.

More importantly, I didn't want to be "sorted out." I didn't want my dad telling me how great I was or how the loss wasn't my fault or how I'd get 'em next year. He knew I'd sucked. I knew I'd sucked. Why should we all pretend something different?

My room, our house, the thought of talking about today endlessly with my parents all seemed stifling and overwhelming. If only there was someone I could talk to who would just listen, who wouldn't try to make me feel better. What I needed at the moment was Kippers. I bet Kippers wasn't trying to tell old Billie that he'd played a great game.

Not that I'd ever be allowed to have a dog. Nope, Dad had made that very clear more than once. I'd tried to get him to let us keep Buddy, Auntie Ruth's dog, when she'd died. Absolutely not, Dad had said, and Buddy had gone off to one of the farms across the moor. I guess he'd been happy there; I'd only seen him once after that and then had learned Buddy had died. Old age, Mum and Dad said, but I'd always believed it was from missing me.

Suddenly I remembered something, something I'd seen on our drive back from the game. The one thing that had made me smile since that awful moment at the game – smile and then just as quickly frown because it was something I wanted and could never have. And then, for no reason whatsoever, I knew what I wanted to do, what I needed to do. Today. Right now.

It was barmy. My parents would never go for it . . . certainly not Dad. They'd probably kill me.

I glanced at my watch. It was still early; I'd have time. I could do it and still be back for dinner. Before I had time to change my mind, I was down the stairs, outside the door, and on my way.

With the sun out, it had felt so warm that I was almost sweating as I'd made my way through the village. No one had paid me much any mind as I'd headed toward the road to Truro.

That was two hours ago and now my barmy idea seemed more barmy than ever. I'd been so sure the place I was headed couldn't be too far from our house. I tried to remember how long we'd driven after seeing it – it had seemed like only a few minutes but I now realized it had to have been more than that.

I needed to stay off the main road; the sight of a boy walking alone on the highway was bound to be noticed. Someone would recognize me and drag me back home straight away. So, keeping far enough away from passing cars, I kept going.

* * *

Penhale knew that no one in Portwenn thought much of his policing skills. Even after a dozen years in the village, very few people actually trusted him to find criminals or investigate crimes or deter wrongdoing.

That was the bad news. The good news was that the PC job in this village rarely required elaborate police work, though he'd never admit that to anyone. His biggest challenges were tourists speeding through town, drunken fishermen, and the occasional bouts of shoplifting, trespassing, and fender-benders. Oh, and when he hung around Doc Martin too long, all sorts of dire things tended to happen, like a kidnapping.

He still remembered the day the mad Mrs. Tishell had made off with the Ellingham baby, the search that had taken them across the countryside, and then the pure joy of finding the boy unharmed. No one who'd been around ten years ago had forgotten; those things just didn't happen in Portwenn, something he and most of the villagers were very glad of.

Now, a decade later, James Henry Ellingham had once again disappeared. Could it really have happened a second time? Could someone have kidnapped James Henry? Or was someone playing some sick joke on the Doc and Louisa?

Penhale strode purposefully to his police vehicle, squaring his shoulders and donning his sunglasses in the late afternoon glare. It was his job to find out what had happened to James Henry and to bring him home safely. He glanced back at the Ellingham home and slumped a little, recognizing the enormity of this responsibility. The fact that Doc Martin – and probably Louisa as well – had zero confidence in his ability to do either didn't exactly boost his self-esteem.

His gut told him this wasn't a kidnapping. It was one thing for Mrs. Tishell to make off with a small baby left in her care. It was something else entirely for someone to walk into the Doc's home in the middle of the day while Louisa was downstairs, make their way upstairs, seize a ten-year-old boy, and escape without anyone noticing. Possible, of course, but not likely. Besides, if someone had wanted to take James Henry, there were places and times that would be much easier than an occupied house in the middle of the day.

Nor was it likely that James Henry had left with someone. A visiting friend – child or adult – would almost certainly have knocked on the front door and announced himself.

The most likely explanation, Penhale still believed, was that James had gone off on his own. For some reason, the boy had decided to leave home without telling his mother and gone . . . somewhere. The first question was why James hadn't said anything to Louisa – had he simply run off in such a hurry that he'd forgotten? Or had he not wanted his mum to know that he'd gone?

And where had he gone?

Penhale had absolutely no idea. He didn't have much experience with runaways. He fell back on his training, even though most of it had taken place long ago. At least he'd gone to those annual refresher seminars and taken a few on-line courses the department offered.

He knew from that training that the first step was to check the child's computer and mobile. He'd done that at the house. James Henry's computer hadn't been on all day and a quick check of the activity for the past several days hadn't provided any helpful information. The mobile also provided no leads. As Doc had said, it was only used for emergencies.

The next step was to canvass James' friends. Although the boy probably wasn't there – Louisa said she'd already called them – they might have some idea where James would go. Penhale would check the school; it was closed on the weekend of course but kids often hung out there after hours. There were a few other places he'd investigate, places the Doc and Louisa had said James liked to visit.

First, however, he'd make sure that word spread through the village that the boy was missing. A few calls and visits to the right people would guarantee that the news passed through the town like a comet across the sky. Someone must have seen James Henry today; it was just a matter of finding that person. And, as Penhale watched the sun start to sink in the western sky and turned on the heater in his car, it had best be soon. Darkness was coming and, if the weather forecasters were to be believed, a cold front that would bring frigid temperatures and a spell of rain. Hopefully, before that happened, James Henry would find shelter or, better yet, come home.


	5. Chapter 5

Alone out on the moor, I was scared. Really scared. Not like I sometimes felt when I wasn't ready for a test at school. Or when I'd done something stupid and was waiting for my parents to decide on a punishment.

Right now, I was a different kind of scared; scared for my life.

Everything had been fine at first. The sun had been warm and it'd felt good to be out in the fresh air. I'd stayed far enough from the road that I wouldn't be spotted, not that there were many cars going past. I'd passed stuff that I'd remembered seeing from the car on our way home from the football game – the pile of rocks that looked like a toadstool, an empty shed, three trees in the middle of nowhere, and a flattened car tyre. I couldn't remember exactly where I'd seen the sign this morning but it couldn't be too far outside of the village. I must be getting close.

I checked my watch. Wow! I'd been walking for more than two hours and now was at the top of a hill. I looked down at the road in front of me, hoping finally to see the sign that had brought me here in the first place.

Nothing. No sign, no crossroad. Nothing but a road that seemed to stretch on forever. How much further would I have to go? I sighed. I looked behind me and again saw only the moor and the winding road. How far had I walked? And, more importantly, where was I?

The only time I'd been on the moor was in my parents' car and those times it hadn't seemed nearly so long and empty. I wrapped my arms around my chest. The sun was behind the clouds and, with only a light jumper to keep me warm, I could feel goosebumps on my arms.

This was stupid. I didn't know where I was. I didn't know how much further I needed to go. I didn't even know exactly where I was headed. It was getting dark. And I was cold and was only going to get colder.

I needed to call my parents to come and get me. I didn't want to; I could only imagine how sore they'd be that I'd run off without telling them. I'd probably be grounded for the rest of my life. And have my tellie and computer privileges taken away forever. I was doomed. The only thing worse than facing Mum and Dad was to stay here. My hand reached into my back pocket for my mobile.

It wasn't there. Oh my God, it wasn't there! I grabbed at my other pockets, hoping maybe I'd put it there and yet knowing that I wouldn't find it.

Oh no. No, it couldn't be. No way. I must have left it in my room. Moron! What an incredibly stupid thing to do, to run off in such a hurry that I forgot to take my mobile. I'd run out in such a hurry that I'd left my mobile in my room. A lot of good it would do me there.

I couldn't call my Mum and Dad. I couldn't call anyone. And no one could call me.

It was cold and I didn't even have a jacket. I was somewhere on the moor and couldn't see anything but dirt and road any way I looked. It would soon be dark and even I knew there were no lights on the moor. And no one knew where I was.

A drop of liquid spit onto my nose and I rubbed it off. A few seconds later, I felt a spatter on my forehead and then one on my hand. I looked up. It was raining.

I slowly sank to the ground as the sprinkle turned into a shower.

"Mummy! Daddy! Help me!"

Of course they couldn't hear me. No one could hear me.

It was dark. It was raining. I had no coat. I had no phone. I was alone. I didn't know where I was or how to find my way home in the darkness. And now I realized I was hungry as well.

I had no idea what to do. So I started to cry.

* * *

Martin was beyond frustrated. He'd spent the last several hours driving around this stupid village . . . well, aimlessly. He had no idea where even to start to look for his son. He just felt he had to do something other than sit by the phone.

At least last time they knew Mrs. Tishell had taken him. Today, they had no idea if he'd been kidnapped or gone off on his own. Martin was reminded of the time many years ago when Peter Cronk had run away. He and Mark Mylow had found the boy in the middle of the road, trying to hitchhike his way to Bristol. Later, Peter had talked about not belonging, not fitting in.

Is that what had happened to James? Did he feel isolated? Louisa had assured Martin that their son was well-adjusted and well-liked. He had a good home, did well in school and in athletics, and seemed always to have friends about. And James certainly must know that both parents loved him.

Then again, Peter Cronk had turned out alright. He was now in medical school of all things, and Martin was quite sure he'd turn into a fine doctor. He could only hope that James' story would have a similar happy ending.

Martin drove slowly into the middle of town, trying to keep one eye on the road and the other on the lookout for his son. Penhale was already checking the homes of his friends and the school. Of course, everyone had promised to call immediately if they saw James. The phone had yet to ring.

Martin parked near the harbor and strode into the Crab. It was a Saturday night and the pub was in full swing. Even so, all eyes immediately turned to him as he stepped inside and in that instant, he knew that they knew.

"Sorry, Doc," the proprietor said peremptorily. "Haven't seen 'im. Rest assured, we're all on the lookout."

Martin glanced around; the morons imbibing alcohol at the counter certainly weren't looking out for anyone but themselves.

As if sensing Martin's unease, the proprietor called him over. "These fellows are just off a long run; wouldn't be much good as searchers. The boat crews went out as soon as they heard from Penhale. They're searching the shoreline," he added.

Martin found himself unexpectedly touched that the men had actually taken time away from their Saturday libations to look for his son. "Right. Uh, good. Please thank them, for Louisa and me."

His visits to several other local businesses produced the same results. Everyone knew James Henry was missing; everyone was on the lookout; no one had seen him. Staying in town was useless; if James showed up, someone would notice and call.

Martin checked in with Louisa. She'd not heard from James or anyone claiming to have seen him or, thankfully, to be holding him hostage. Martin sighed, got back into his car and started driving, having absolutely no idea where to go.


	6. Chapter 6

I felt like a sissy for crying. I bet my dad never cried. Then again, I bet my dad never did something so stupid as to run off to the moor without his mobile and without telling anyone. And if he had done something that stupid, he'd be sorting a way out rather than crying like a baby.

Rain dribbled down my face. I figured that there were only three things I could do: stay right where I was, keep going, or try to find my way back home. None of them seemed like a very good idea, especially in the dark. I could easily get lost, well, more lost than I already was. Everyone knew you didn't want to be lost on the moor, especially at night. I didn't even want to think what creatures might be lurking out here.

I rubbed my shoulders up and down to try to keep warm. It didn't help. My clothes were soaked through and all I managed to do was rub the cold into my arms, which only made me colder.

I really needed to get out of this rain and to do that I needed to find a place that was dry and maybe even warm. A big tree would do for the rain bit – if there were any big trees on the moor, which there weren't. I tried to remember if I'd passed a shack or something like that since I'd left the village. There was that empty farmhouse, but it was a long ways back and I had no idea how to find it again in the dark without even a torch to help me.

If someone didn't come along, I might well be out here all night. I'd never been outside all night before – well, other than camping out in Dave's garden. And there we had a tent and warm sleeping bags, and when it started to rain, Mrs. Nelson let us come into the house and gave us hot chocolate and let us sleep in real beds. I didn't have any of that out here and wasn't at all sure how I was going to manage.

I again tried imagining what my dad would do. He was really smart and could figure out a lot of things but he could be a bit bodmin about some things, like when he talked about his own mum and dad, so he might have run off when he was my age. Of course, he'd grown up in London where there were lots of streets and people and buses and not dark empty moors. Mum had grown up in Portwenn and she was really smart too. I wondered if she'd ever run off like I'd done. Probably not. She liked to stand around and talk about stuff.

What was that? It looked like . . . two small lights. Lights! They looked like two torches. Hey! Maybe I wasn't alone. Maybe someone else was out here. I was both excited and scared. Who would be bodmin enough to be out here at night? Heck, maybe they weren't real. Maybe I was seeing things.

I squeezed my eyes shut for a few seconds, then opened them again really slowly, almost afraid of what I might see. And sighed. The lights were still there, right were I'd left them, and now seemed even closer.

Wait a sec! The lights were too big to be torches; they were headlamps. Headlamps from a car! A car was coming down the road toward me. The road! I had to get to the road. Earlier, I'd stayed away from the road so I wouldn't be seen. Now, to have any chance of stopping that car for some help, I had to get back down there real quick.

I scrambled down the hill in a race to get to the road before the car passed by. I wasn't sure how long that would take me – and didn't know when, if ever, another car might drive by tonight, so there was no time to lose. The rain had turned the ground into slippery mud, and I found myself slipping and sliding, falling onto my backside, my hands grabbing onto whatever they could to pull myself up. I did my best to ignore the icky feeling of a wet behind and dirty hands and forced myself to keep going.

I finally reached the bottom of the hill and started to run toward the light. My trousers were caked with mud, the rain was getting heavier and the ground was soggy, slowing me down. Ahead of me, the lights were still there, now even closer. There were still several football fields of dark moor between me and the road. The car was so close, coming around the final turn before it would reach me. Drat! I wasn't going to make it.

I ran even faster, faster than I'd ever run before, sucking in huge gulps of air and rain as my shoes sunk deep into the mud with every step. If I didn't catch this car, I'd probably be out here on my own all night long.

The lights were almost directly in front of me. The car would pass any minute—

I could see it now, just ahead of me. Only a few more yards. I was almost there. Aahh! My foot caught on something and before I could even try to catch my balance, I found myself flat on my face.

I could hear the car now. It was so close. I had to get up; I just had to.

I pulled myself to my knees, my arm scraping painfully across something I couldn't even see. I started to stand and – crying out, I immediately fell down again. Drat, that hurt! I'd done something my right ankle or foot or something down there. Whatever I'd done, the pain was so bad; there was no way I could stand up which meant I couldn't walk or run either. Which meant I couldn't get to the road.

The car was right in front of me, no more than fifty feet away.

"Hey!" I called out, waving my hands. "Help! Help!"

I was too far away for anyone to hear me. And, in my dark clothing and still kneeling on the ground, there was no way anyone in the car could see me, even if they were looking.

"Help! Over here!"

The car kept moving and, darn it all, I couldn't move. If only there was some way to let them know I was out here.

* * *

Martin's mobile rang. He stared at the number on the Lexus' entertainment screen. A local call, but not Penhale. Hopefully it was someone who'd seen or, even better, found James Henry.

"Ellingham," he snapped, allowing the car's microphones to pick up his voice.

"Doc, I'm so glad I got hold of you. It's Martha Tydings, Geoffrey's mum."

Geoffrey was one of James' friends. Maybe . . . "Have you found James?"

"James? Oh, no, I'm sorry I haven't. Louisa called me to say he was missing and of course I—"

Martin tuned her out after the word "sorry." If the woman hadn't seen James, then why in the world was she calling?

"Doc?"

"What?" he barked out.

"I asked if _you'd_ found James."

"No," Martin replied curtly.

"Oh, I thought that you must have, it being so late and all . . . " Her voice trailed off in something between apology and embarrassment.

"Why are you calling?" he asked.

"Oh, right. It's Geoffrey," she said. "He's running a fever and has a really bad sore throat."

Martin bit back the retort that leapt to his throat. It was the middle of the night. His son was missing and this woman calls about her son, safe and sound in his bed, and who probably had nothing more than a mild URI. He should have her call Dr. Nordquist, the GP in Wadebridge. Let him make the home visit. Martin certainly had more important things to do.

Of course, it would take Nordquist more than an hour to get here. And if the child had no more than a cold, his colleague would be none too pleased about being dragged out of bed for nothing. Martin should at least make some effort to ascertain how seriously ill the boy might be.

"How high?" he asked automatically with a loud sigh.

"Huh?"

"How high is his temperature?" he said, enunciating each word.

"Oh. 38.5."

That was a bit high for a URI. A differential started to form in his mind. "How long has he had the sore throat?"

"All day. He can't get to sleep. Say says his throat feels like it's on fire, and that was after I gave him lozenges."

Probably strep. Martin squinted up at the street sign. As he suspected, he was only a few blocks from the Tydings' home. He was torn – call Nordquist and continue his thus far futile search for his son or stop off and examine the child.

Martin sighed and peered into the darkened streets, illuminated every so often with the pale glow of streetlamps. Nothing. No sign of his son.

"Doc?" Mrs. Tydings' voice boomed through the car's speakers.

Martin sighed again and turned the steering wheel.

* * *

Penhale was beyond frustrated. He'd spent the entire day searching for some sign of James Henry Ellingham and had come up with nothing.

He'd visited the boy's friends. Yes, they'd all said, James generally seemed happy. No, James hadn't said anything about running away from home. No, they didn't know of any reason that he would take off. Of course, Doc and Louisa's son had had a bad time this morning at football, but no one held it against him; these things happened. No, they didn't know where he might go if he decided to run away.

And then he'd talked to the children's parents. Yes, James always seemed happy and content. No, they couldn't think of any reason he might run away or anyone who might want to harm James or his parents.

And so it went, home after home. Penhale had checked the school. On a hunch, he'd visited the farm where Ruth Ellingham had lived for so many years. The new tenants hadn't seen the child and Penhale's search of the grounds hadn't produced any sign that James was there or even had been there. He'd called the bus line and the local taxi companies, none of whom reported seeing anyone who resembled James Henry.

One thing all the kids had told him was that James loved animals. So, on a hunch, Penhale had checked with the animal shelter and even called the Norquay Zoo. No luck.

Then he'd spread the word throughout the village itself. Everyone seemed genuinely aghast that James had disappeared for a second time. Worse, no one had seen him in the past day.

Now, he was fresh out of ideas. The only good news was that there'd been no call from a kidnapper, no ransom demand. That supported his theory that the boy had run off on his own. But, until he could figure out where the boy had gone, being right in his supposition did no good at all.

If the boy hadn't been found by daylight, he'd organize search parties. Penhale wondered if he should have done that when Doc and Louisa's son had first gone missing. And he if shouldn't call in Scotland Yard. They were experts at this sort of thing, even if they did tend to run roughshod over local police authorities. For all he'd done, it seemed as if he hadn't done anything – or, given that the child was still missing, at least hadn't done enough.

His mobile squawked with an incoming call and, pulling the car to the side of the road, he fumbled to answer. Maybe it was finally a lead. "PC Penhale, 3021," he answered crisply.

"PC, we have a report of possible rocks thrown at a vehicle," the dispatcher reported.

"Rock throwing?" he repeated.

"The report is a _possible_ rock throwing," the dispatcher corrected him.

Great. Not just rock throwing but "possible" rock throwing. Good Lord. "Where did it occur?" he asked, not caring a whit. Usually, he would have responded immediately, notebook in hand. He would have interviewed the complainant, conducted an investigation, and hopefully apprehended the perpetrator. Tonight, he had more important things to do, like search for a missing child.

"Approximately five miles outside of the village," the dispatcher reported. "On the edge of the moor."

Which was at least ten miles from his current location and, at this time of the night and in this weather, meant a good half-hour drive. A half-hour James Ellingham could scarcely afford.

"All right. I'll follow up as soon as I'm able," he replied, not even asking for the reporter's contact information. Like he said, he'd get around to investigating it as soon as he was able. Which, at this rate, might be three weeks from now.

He turned off the mobile and started up the jeep. If James Henry had indeed run off, by now he would be cold, hungry and probably regretting his decision. In which case, he'd probably be trying to head home. The best place to look would be on the roads back to Portwenn and the Ellingham home. But which one?

Penhale drove on in the dark, willing James Henry to pop out from behind some tree or jump in front of him in the road or, when he was stopped at a traffic light, simply come up and knock on the car door. None of that was likely. The boy was probably huddled up in some shack somewhere in the middle of nowhere, trying to ride out the night—

He slammed on his brakes so quickly that it was a miracle the airbags didn't deploy, his mind spinning in high gear. It was a bodmin idea. There was no way. It couldn't be. It would only be a waste of valuable time, time James Henry might not have. His superiors would laugh at him. Doc and Louisa would probably kill him.

But, at the moment, he didn't have any better ideas. It wasn't much, but it was better than driving around aimlessly for the rest of the night.

Penhale picked up his mobile and called the dispatcher.

* * *

Medical Notes:

URI = upper respiratory infection (usually, the common cold)

For American readers, a temperature of 38.5 C = 101.3 F


	7. Chapter 7

This time I didn't cry. I'd wanted to when that car drove by without even slowing down. I'd watched the red lights go off into the darkness, hoping that the car might just turn around. It didn't, and once again I was alone. I so wanted to cry but I'd already figured out that crying wasn't going to help me get off this moor.

I sat down in the icy mud, trying not to think about how crappy I felt. I was cold and wet and hungry. I also was dirty and hurt. I wanted my room and soft bed and warm jammies and my mum fixing me supper and then tucking me in. Just the thought of all those things I'd always taken for granted caused my eyes to start watering. I wiped them with grimy fingers and told myself to stop it. I was acting like a girl.

What I'd done today in running off today was more than stupid and now I was paying the price. Mum and Dad would probably kill me – if I ever saw them again.

I couldn't think about that now. I needed to get closer to the road so the next time a car came by – if one came by – it would have to stop for me. I tried once again to stand, doing my best to keep the weight off my ankle, and then hopped forward.

And tripped, again falling flat onto my face. My good leg had gotten twisted in some brambles or something like that. Looking ahead, I saw there was too much junk on the ground to hop safely in the darkness. With a sigh, I realized I'd have to crawl.

I started out again – my hands and knees digging into the soggy, muddy ground. Crawling helped the pain in my leg, but made my arm hurt even worse. I didn't know what was wrong other than I'd scraped it hard against something when I'd fallen the first time and now it hurt like the dickens. It was hard to tell if I was bleeding as I was wet from the rain and there was no light to see.

After a few minutes, I was so soaked and dirty that the rain and the muck no longer bothered me. Between the weather and the pain, I had to stop a lot to rest and it seemed to take forever to cover even a few feet. Thankfully, I didn't have far to go to reach the road.

I tried to figure the distance between me and the road and count down the number of feet. Fifty, I reckoned – fifty feet to go. I crawled forward. Forty. Ahead of me was the edge of the blacktop – I was almost there. Thirty, then twenty. Hmm, it seemed a bit more than twenty – guess I wasn't so good at guessing after all. Still, it wasn't far now and, suddenly, the road was right in front of me. I sat down and breathed heavily. I'd made it – the next car had to be able to see me. Now I only had to stay awake until another car drove by, and hope that one did before things got even worse.

I was so tired, so very tired. It was tempting just to lie down and close my eyes, but I couldn't do that. If I did, I might sleep through a passing car or not wake up until it had passed me by. After all I'd gone through to get to this spot, I had to stay awake. I pressed hard on my arm, and then harder until I was forced to scream with the pain, then sat back with a satisfied sigh. The pain would keep me awake.

There was one other thing and, now next to the road, it was easy to find. I crawled around, picked up what I needed. Satisfied, I sat back, glued my eyes to the road, and waited.

* * *

Penhale sped through the now dark village headed out toward the moor, fresh from talking to the man who'd reported a rock strike on his car.

"It's raining," Penhale had needlessly reminded the man. "Are you sure it wasn't just debris kicking up from the road, wind blowing rocks, that sort of thing?"

"I probably shouldn't tell you this," the motorist had said, "but when I was a kid I used to toss rocks at passing cars. I'm pretty sure that's what happened to me tonight."

"And you didn't stop?"

"At night? On the moor? " the man asked incredulously. "Are you bodmin?"

"Did you see anyone?" Penhale asked in desperation.

"Penhale, it was dark," the man replied. "It was raining, I was tired, I was low on petrol, and I was on the moor. I wasn't sightseeing."

So, with nothing to go on but an irrational hunch, Penhale had turned his car around and headed toward where the man thought the rock throwing incident had occurred. Given that the driver of the car had been running out of petrol, he'd frequently been glancing at his odometer as he headed into town. As a result, Penhale had a pretty good idea where to start his search.

He thought about calling the Doc and Louisa, then decided against it. If he turned out to be wrong, he'd never be able to live with himself for engendering false hope. And, odds were that he was wrong.

He passed the outskirts of the village and then the "leaving Portwenn" sign and headed out into the darkness. About four miles outside of town, the man had said. Penhale drove as fast as he could for the first three miles, then slowed down, keeping his lights on bright and turning on his police flashers.

If it was James Ellingham who'd thrown the rocks, the boy would have to be quite close to the road and mostly likely on his left side. That narrowed things down a bit.

Please let me find him, Penhale prayed softly. At three and a half miles outside of town, he slowed his car to a crawl and opened all the windows. Damn, it was cold, and he bit his lip at the thought of an improperly dressed boy being out in this weather.

He stopped the jeep and leaned out the window. "James!" he called. "James Henry! Can you hear me?" After nearly a half-minute of silence, he started rolling forward, slowly so as to keep the sound of the motor as low as possible. A hundred yards ahead, he stopped again, and repeated his calls.

He kept this up until he'd gone more than four miles from the village, further than where he'd expected to find the boy, if James were actually here. Had he missed him? Maybe he should have stopped more often. Or, maybe, his hunch had been wrong and James Henry wasn't even here. Maybe he was stupidly wasting his time driving around the moor when he could be . . . he forced himself to push aside his doubts, at least for a few more minutes.

Penhale edge the car forward. Suddenly, something hard hit the windshield. A second later, several small objects flew through his open passenger window.

"Hey! Stop that!" Instinctively, he started to roll up the window, then stopped himself and instead turned off the ignition, grabbed his torch, and jerked open the door.

"James Henry!" He stumbled out of the jeep. "Is that you? It's PC Penhale. Where are you?" He walked ahead into the darkness, shining his torch back and forth. "James! James Henry!"

He was greeted only with silence.

* * *

Martin hadn't wanted to come home. He wanted, needed, to do something useful to find his son. Not that driving around all day had been particularly useful, other than to keep his hands and mind somewhat occupied. Martin had discovered lots of places in Portwenn where his son was _not_ to be found; what he hadn't done was find even one place where his son had been that day.

He'd examined the Tydings boy. Looked like strep. He'd told the mother to bring the boy into the surgery tomorrow and he'd do a spot strep test. It had been a home visit like any other. Except that it wasn't. It was hard to focus on the throat of his son's best friend when he could only think about James. Muscle memory and professionalism were all that got him through the visit. And, the instant he was finished, he went out again to search.

Finally, several hours after the sun had sunk over the mountains, he'd given up and returned to the cottage. Much as he hated to quit, he recognized that driving around aimlessly in the darkness wasn't helping anyone and, in fact, was leaving Louisa home to worry and fret on her own. He'd been in constant contact with her throughout the day – he telling her that he'd found nothing and she telling him that no one had called with news.

When he walked into the cottage, he wasn't surprised to find Louisa awake, sitting inches from the phone, with tear-stained eyes that seemed to will the instrument to ring. She was still in the clothes she'd worn earlier in the day, as if ready to rush out the door at the first sign of news.

"Oh, Martin!" she said and the despair in her voice cut through any sense of bravado Martin might have tried to project.

He loosened his tie and sat down next to her on the sofa, taking her in his arms and letting her head rest against his shoulder. There was nothing he could say, nothing to take away the hurt and anxiety both of them were feeling.

"It's so awful outside," Louisa sniffed. "What if he's out there alone?"

Martin had thought of that very thing many times while he was driving around. It wasn't the coldest or nastiest day in Cornwall by far and he took some solace in the fact that the weather by itself wouldn't be lethal. But the combination of rain, wind and moderate cold would make things miserable for anyone forced to stay outdoors for any length of time without shelter and proper attire. And their son certainly wasn't dressed for foul weather.

"He probably found shelter of some kind," he said, even though he didn't really believe any such thing. There was no way of knowing what condition James Henry might be in at the moment, let alone whether he'd found someplace warm and dry.

"You don't know that! You don't even know where he is!"

"No, I don't," Martin admitted, realizing with irony that, for once, he was the one projecting hope to Louisa's despair.

"He could be dead."

"Don't say that." Martin's tone was sharper than he'd intended. "He's a smart, strong boy. I've no doubt that he's . . ." The problem was that Martin did have doubts – had many doubts. The boy was only ten and, beyond some camping in a friend's garden, had little experience dealing with the outdoors.

"He's only a child, Martin." Louisa echoed his thoughts. "How will he manage? And why hasn't he called us? Certainly anyone he went to would let us know straight away."

Martin didn't have the answers to those questions. It was true that the citizens of this sometimes God-forsaken village, idiots as they might be, would certainly let James' parents know if they found the child wandering around on his own at night. The fact no one had alerted them suggested James was indeed on his own and, quite possibly, injured – a thought that sent an involuntary shiver through his body.

"It's my fault," Louisa said, pulling away from him and staring again at the phone. "I shouldn't have left him alone all afternoon. I should have checked on him."

"It's not your fault," he replied automatically. It wasn't of course. No more than it had been his fault for leaving baby James with Mrs. Tishell. And yet Martin well knew that, after the fact, it was far too easy to question actions that seemed perfectly normal and natural at the time.

"Then whose fault is it?" she asked.

They were merely rehashing the conversation they'd held this afternoon. Trying to apportion blame would not bring back James Henry. "Louisa, this isn't helping."

"It's not? Then what would help, Martin? What would help us find our son?"

"Penhale's searching for him." Even as he said the words, Martin realized how pathetic they sounded. Penhale couldn't find ice in an igloo; what chance did he have to find a boy whom no one had seen in more than eight hours?

"Do you think Joe's right – that James went off on his own?"

Martin had been thinking about that very thing all day. It seemed logical, and even more so as the hours dragged on. And yet it didn't make sense. What would cause their son to run away from home at all, let alone today? "I can't think of any reason for him to do that."

"We've tried to be good parents."

"Louisa, let's not blame ourselves. It won't help us and it won't help find James."

"Then what can we do?"

Search again in the morning? Call Scotland Yard? Form search parties? Bring in search dogs? Drag the harbor? Maybe they should have already done those things. He'd listened to that idiot Penhale who said the boy had simply run off and where were they now?

Their son seemed to have simply disappeared of the face of the earth. The fact that he and Louisa might never see James Henry again . . . Martin banished the thought from his mind. He had to be somewhere. Someone would find him. They would see their son again.

"What we do is the only thing we can do at this point. We wait here and hope that someone finds him tonight."

"And what if they don't?"

Martin had no clue.


	8. Chapter 8

It felt SO good to see PC Penhale running toward me, his torch shining brightly on my face. I was found! I was safe! I was going home! And something about look on his face told me he was just as glad to see me.

Penhale's smile slowly turned to a frown as I limped toward him.

"Are you alright?" he asked. "What's wrong with your leg?"

"It's okay." Suddenly, my ankle didn't hurt nearly as bad as it had a few minutes ago. "Just twisted it, I think."

"Well, best get off it then. It could be strained, or sprained or even broken." He picked me up and carried me to his jeep. Once there, Penhale juggled me in his arms as he opened the back door and laid me inside. He took off his jacket, rolled it into a ball, and propped it under my head. All I could think about was that I was finally warm.

"Here you go," he said, somehow managing to buckle the seatbelt around me even though I was lying down. "I'll get the heat on straight away and we'll get you home in no time."

His hand brushed against my arm and I jerked away as pain seared through me. "Ow!"

"What in the—" The constable stopped what he was dong and flicked on the overhead light, looking closely at my arm. "Hey, you're bleeding."

I looked down and saw he was right. Blood had soaked through the left arm of my jumper. No wonder it had hurt so bad when I'd been crawling; I must have cut myself when I fell.

Penhale reached over the back seat and brought out a first aid box. "Let's see what I can do." He pushed up my jumper and we could both see a cut that was dirty and oozing blood. He cleaned it up as best he could and wrapped a white bandage around my arm. When he was done, we both kind of frowned at his work.

"Guess I should have taken more of those first-aid courses," he said, frowning some more. "You know, the ones where they teach you all those ways to bandage wounds and stop bleeding and set broken bones and—"

"It's okay," I said. It wasn't nearly as neat a job as my dad would have done, but at least I wasn't bleeding anymore.

"Yeah, well, I'm sure your dad will fix you up."

Once he was convinced I was as comfortable as possible, he got behind the wheel, started the jeep and turned up the heat full blast. Right away, my fingers and toes started to tingle and I let my head sink back against the window.

I thought he'd start driving but instead he got on his mobile, calling my folks. He told them he'd found me alone on the moor and that I was safe.

"He's fine," Penhale was saying. "Well, maybe not fine exactly. Mostly fine, that is." There was a pause and I knew my mum and dad were asking how bad off I was. "He sustained two minor injuries, but they don't look too serious." There were a few more seconds of silence before Penhale added, "No, I don't think I'm a doctor." Oops. Dad must have said something.

"Yes, he's right here," Penhale said after a moment, twisting in his seat and handing me his mobile.

I was a bit worried; Mum and Dad were bound to be sore at me for what I'd done. "Hello," I said tentatively.

"Oh, James!" It was Mum and the sound of her voice almost made me cry yet again. I'd best not do that in front of the PC as, knowing him, he'd make a big deal of it forever.

"Hi, Mum."

"Are you alright? Joe said you were hurt."

"I'm okay. I'm sorry for running off."

"It's alright. I'm just so glad to hear your voice and know you're okay."

Well, it was alright for now because she'd knew I was safe. I was pretty certain that when I got home, things might not be so alright, at least for me.

"James." It was Dad's voice. "Where are you hurt?"

Of course Dad would ask about my injuries first thing. "I think I twisted my ankle."

"Can you walk on it?"

"Sort of."

"Hmm. Are you hurt anywhere else?"

I didn't want to say more but figured that, if I didn't, the PC would rat me out. "I cut my arm. But I'm okay," I assured him. "The PC fixed it up for me."

Dad snorted. "Let me speak to Penhale." I handed back the phone.

"Yeah, Doc."

"Bring James directly to the surgery." Dad was talking loud enough through the mobile for me to hear him. "I'll have a look at him there."

"Joe?" It was Mum again. "What happened to him?"

"Why don't we talk about that when we get there," Penhale answered. "We'll meet you at the surgery in fifteen minutes."

* * *

It felt really good to be warm and dry inside PC Penhale's truck. He'd also given me a candy bar; it was a bit stale but given as I hadn't eaten for almost a full day, I gobbled it down. Now that I wasn't cold or hungry, if the road hadn't been so bumpy that I was bouncing around in the back seat, I probably would have fallen asleep straight away.

I found it rather funny that the PC had on his flashing police lights given that we were the only car on the road. At least he hadn't turned on his siren, which would have been kind of embarrassing.

"So, James Henry Ellingham," the PC said after a minute of driving. "I probably should arrest you."

Arrest me? That woke me up in a hurry. Arrest like in jail? For being out alone on the moor? What had I done?

"Huh?" was all I could manage.

"I have a report of an individual throwing rocks at passing cars. That constitutes vandalism, which is a crime under the law." PC Penhale's voice was very low and serious; I'd never heard speak like that and it was a bit scary. "Now, I have reasonable cause to believe you are the guilty party. Are you?"

I swallowed hard. Mum and Dad had taught me always to tell the truth and I knew you could never lie to a policeman. But if I told him it was me who'd thrown those rocks . . . The PC said it was a crime. If I told the truth, he wouldn't really arrest me, would he?

I didn't know much about jail other than what I'd seen on the tellie and read about in books. And I was pretty sure it was a really bad place to be. I wouldn't be able to go to school or play football or use the computer or even see Mum and Dad except on visiting days. And I might be in a cell with murderer and spend all day making license plates! The PC couldn't really be thinking about sending me to jail, could he?

"I, um." How could I explain what I'd done? "You see, I didn't know how else to get a car to stop for me. I was so cold and I didn't have my mobile and I couldn't walk because of my ankle—"

"So you tossed rocks. There's a reason that throwing objects at cars is against the law. The driver might have become distracted and run off the road. The rocks could have shattered the windscreen and cause serious injury to the driver or passengers. There could have been property damage to the cars – you know, scratches and dents and scrapes."

I hadn't really thought about all that. I'd been trying so hard to get someone's attention that I hadn't stopped to think that the rocks could hurt anyone. I knew how careful Dad was with his car and if someone threw rocks at him – oh boy, would they be in trouble. As I was in trouble with the PC.

"Lucky for you," PC Penhale said, "there doesn't seem to be any damage to the vehicle you hit and no one was injured. And there were mitigating circumstances – the cold, the darkness, your age, your injuries, the lack of malicious intent – those sorts of things."

I think he was trying to say that I didn't mean to do it or maybe that I had an excuse. And that maybe, just maybe, I might not end up in jail after all. I held my breath, seeing what he'd say next.

"So let's say no more about it, shall we?"

I gulped. That was fine with me as long as I didn't get arrested. I was in enough trouble as it was.

"Now that we've taken care of the criminal mischief, do you want to tell me what you were doing out on the moor in the middle of the night?"

Not really. "I wasn't thinking straight. I'm sorry." It was true and seemed like the best thing to say.

"I'm sure you are. You know, your mum and dad have been very, very worried about you."

Finally, the PC's voice had softened which made me feel he might not be so mad at me. "Yeah," I said. And I was sure I'd hear more about it from them. A lot more, I thought with a sense of dread.

"Do you know why they were so worried? Why your dad was driving all over the village all night? Why your mum has been sitting home by the telephone waiting for someone to call about you?"

I hadn't really thought about it. I'd just figured . . . I didn't know what I'd figured. It was one of the many things I hadn't thought through when I'd run off like I did.

"I probably shouldn't tell you this." Penhale interrupted my thoughts. "But it's time you knew, in case you have a mind to do something like this again. I think you're old enough now."

A secret? And I was old enough? What did he mean by that? It sounded rather exciting and I waited for him to go on.

"Ten years ago, you were involved in a heinous crime."

Despite being hurt and tired, my eyes widened. "A crime?" I wasn't sure what "heinous" meant, but it sounded bad. Ten years ago, I was only a baby. How could I have been involved in a crime?

"Criminal kidnapping!" the PC added.

"Really?" I couldn't help the word that escaped my mouth. Of course I knew all about kidnapping; all us kids did. The PC had talked to our class at school many times about how we shouldn't talk to strangers and certainly never go off with them because they might take us away and never bring us back.

"A bodmin woman kidnapped you."

"Me? Someone kidnapped me?"

"Yes, when you were a small baby. Your dad had left you with her; of course, there was no reason to suspect she was a criminal. And she made off with you – took you to a castle where she held you hostage."

I didn't really understand all of what he was saying. "But . . . I was fine, wasn't I?" After all, I was still here with Mum and Dad.

"Yes. I helped investigate the crime and locate you. I apprehended the suspect." The PC sounded very proud of himself and I realized that he'd now saved me twice. "The thing is, when you ran away today, your mum and dad, well, I'm pretty sure they were afraid it had happened again."

I thought about that for a bit. "You mean they thought someone had kidnapped me."

"A lot of people thought that. Not myself, of course. Being a man of the law, I knew it was necessary to investigate, to track down leads, to interview witnesses—"

I was no longer paying attention. I was already feeling terrible for what I'd done by running off without telling anyone and not taking my phone and making the PC come out and find me and . . . I'd never even considered that my parents might think someone had made off with me. And now to know that it had actually happened before – to me, no less!

No wonder Mum had sounded so scared and relieved at the same time. She thought I'd been kidnapped, that someone had taken me away and that she'd never see me again. And I'd done it. I'd been the stupid bloke who'd run off without telling her. And now I'd made her all upset. And probably Dad too.

Suddenly, my joy at being found and at seeing my parents again seemed to melt away . . . I had a lot to think about.

"So, James Henry Ellingham," PC Penhale said, glancing over his shoulder at me, "I think it's time you tell me why you decided to run off to the moor."

And so I did.


	9. Chapter 9

The minute the constable's jeep skidded to a stop in front of my dad's surgery, my door was jerked open. After I'd explained myself to the PC, I'd slept off and on during the rest of the ride, happy finally to be warm and on my way home.

"James, thank God you're safe." The sight of Mum's face and the sound of her voice suddenly made me feel guiltier than ever for what I'd done.

"Here we go." Dad pushed his way past her and scooped me into his arms like I was a feather. It hit me that he wasn't wearing a suit and the collar of his shirt was unbuttoned. Oh boy, he must really have been worried. As I was pulled from the car, I felt a burst of cold hit my skin and the sting of rain on my face. It didn't matter; I was okay now.

As I closed my eyes, I heard Mum talking to Penhale. "Joe, I don't know how to thank you. We were so worried—"

"It's all part of the job – investigating, following leads, tracking down suspects—"

Dad carried me through the waiting room and placed me onto his exam couch. Mum stood beside me, her hand holding mine tight. I felt Dad pick up my left arm, unwrap the PC's bandage, and run his fingers gently over my skin.

I opened my eyes and tried to speak, to tell everyone how sorry I was for . . . running away, for reminding them of what had happened when I was a baby, for making them worry . . . for everything. Instead, I found myself shivering even though the surgery was plenty warm.

Dad must have noticed because he frowned and suddenly produced a thermometer. "Under your tongue," he said, placing it in my mouth and then turning to Mum.

"Louisa, can you get him out of these wet clothes and under the blankets." I followed his gaze to a pile stacked on a chair across the room. "Just put on the pajama bottoms; I'll need access to his arm."

Mum's hand gave me a tight squeeze then slipped out of mine. A few seconds later, she started to pull off my shirt. I let her go until she started to take off my vest. Knowing what was to come . . . well, I was too old for my mum to undress me or see me without my clothes. Dad maybe – after all, he was a guy and a doctor to boot. Mum . . . no way.

"Mum! Stop!" I garbled around the thermometer.

"What?" she asked, pausing halfway through what she was doing.

Dad pulled the thermometer out of my mouth and read it. "That's alright," he mumbled.

I turned back to Mum. "I can do it," I said, sounding stronger than I felt.

"All right," she said. "I thought that you might need a wee bit of help—"

"I can do it," I said again. "Please, Mum. Let me do it, _myself_." My eyes begged her to understand that I didn't want her to see me like that.

She looked at Dad and then back at me. "All right, James. I'll be right outside if you need me."

It was easy enough to pull off my vest. When I got to my trousers, they were all wet and sticking to me and, with my hands still a bit cold, I couldn't manage to get them off.

"Penhale, can you give him a hand?" Dad asked, holding his stethoscope and pocket torch in his hands and obviously wanting to get on with his examination.

"Roger that, Doc." The PC helped me get out of my trousers and, before I had a chance to get too cold, he pulled on my jammies and wrapped me in warm blankets. It was hard to pay mind to all that because at the same time Dad had a tight hold of my head and was talking to me.

"Did you hit your head when you fell?"

"No, Dad."

He flicked his bright torch into my eyes. "No sign of concussion," he said, seeming to relax a little.

"Uh, Doc, do you need me for anything more? Crimes to solve, felons to arrest, you know how it is."

"No."

"You're right. No one really understands how difficult it is to be a policeman in this village—"

"I meant 'no,' I don't need you any more."

"Oh, right."

My eyes followed Penhale to the door. "Thanks for finding me," I managed to stammer.

The PC turned back. "It's my job. I'm glad you're safe and back at home." He shook his finger at me and gave me one of his stern policeman looks. "And don't ever do that again or I might have to arrest you next time."

"Yes, thank you," Dad said, sounding as if he really meant it. "It's . . . I . . . I mean, Louisa and I . . . we . . ."

Penhale nodded and seemed to smile. I could have sworn that he stood a bit taller. "Roger that, Doc."

Once the PC had gone, Dad ran his hands all over my body, pressing here and there. Even though I was a bit sore all over, nothing really hurt bad. He listened to my chest with his stethoscope then moved to the end of the couch and pulled the blankets off my bad ankle. "Tell me if anything I do hurts you at all." He pushed and twisted and bent my foot this way and that. Mostly it was okay but the few times it hurt, I told him so.

Dad hadn't yet said anything about my running off; I kind of wished he would and at the same time hoped he wouldn't, at least not yet. Not until I figured out what I'd say back to him.

Mum walked back into the room as Dad was finishing up with my leg.

"Is he alright?" she asked, looking between the two of us.

"No serious injuries. Looks to be some ligament damage to his right ankle. Nothing seems to be broken, but we'll get an x-ray tomorrow to be sure."

Mum smiled and brushed my wet hair back from my face. "Thank goodness. He might have—"

"He didn't," Dad finished for her. "He'll be fine. Louisa, can you get a bag of ice and a pillow; we'll elevate his ankle and ice it while I suture his arm."

Mum stopped halfway to the door. "Suture? Martin, is it that bad? Will he have a scar?"

"Not if I do it," Dad said and in that moment I was really glad to be his son.

A few minutes later, my foot was propped on a pillow, a bag of ice resting atop of it. The cold set me to shivering again and Mum tucked another blanket around my shoulders.

Dad brought over a small tray and set it on the table next to me. When he unwrapped it, all I could see were needles and other sharp metal objects. I swallowed hard. Dad had said he'd suture my arm. Suturing meant sewing and I'd seen Mum do a bit of mending. Dad was going to stick needles into my skin. The next thing I knew he'd snapped on a pair of gloves.

"Uh—" I tried to find the right words to let Dad know I was scared but wouldn't make me seem like a sissy. I didn't want him or anyone to stab me with those needles and found myself pulling away and shaking, even under all of the wool blankets. I knew Dad didn't much care for patients who didn't let him do his work so I waited for him to grab my arm in his strong hands and tell me to "shush."

Instead, he put one hand on my shoulder and I was surprised by how gentle it felt. "James, calm down."

That was pretty darn hard knowing what he was about to do to me.

"James, look at me."

I wanted to but I couldn't take my eyes off all those sharp things on his tray.

"James," he repeated, softer this time, and something in his voice made me turn back and look into his eyes. They seemed almost sad and I once again thought about the pain I seemed to have caused both of my parents.

"James, I won't do anything to hurt you. You have a deep cut on your arm and I need to put in a few stitches to close it. It won't take but a few minutes and I'll give you an anesthetic – something to take away the pain – so you won't feel a thing while I'm working."

I liked it when Dad talked to me like I was an adult. And Dad always told the truth, so if he said it wouldn't hurt, I knew I'd be okay. I nodded, my eyes still on the instruments on his tray.

"James." I turned at the sound of Mum's voice, on the other side of the bed. "Are you warm enough?"

"Yes, Mum."

"Why don't you close your eyes and rest while your father takes care of you." That actually sounded like a good idea.

The next thing I knew, I heard Dad's voice. "I'm going to give you the anesthetic now. It may burn for just a few seconds and then it won't hurt anymore."

As always, Dad was straight on. I felt the burn, just for a bit, then nothing. There was the warmth of my blankets, the soft clatter Dad's instruments, and the feel of Mum's hand squeezing mine. The weight of the day seemed to descend and lift at the same time and, hard as I tried, there wasn't much I could do to stop my eyelids from closing.

* * *

"Free puppies!" Martin could not believe the words that had just come out of Louisa's mouth. "All this—" Martin waved his arm about. "Is about a dog?"

Louisa sighed heavily at him. "It seems that's at least what started all this."

"Please explain to me what dogs have to do with James running off."

"Martin, why don't you sit down?"

He and Louisa were back in the sitting room of their cottage, with James tucked securely in his room. By the time Martin had finished tending to his son's medical needs, the boy had fallen asleep. Martin and Louisa had driven him the short distance home where Martin had carried him upstairs and put him into bed. Martin had checked on him a few minutes ago and found him still fast asleep. The combination of the late hour, the day's excitement, and the analgesic Martin had given him would easily keep James asleep well into the morning hours.

Now, even though it was well after midnight, Martin and Louisa themselves were too keyed up to sleep. Instead, Martin was trying to understand why James had run away – why his well-adjusted son had left home without telling anyone and ended up on the moor in the middle of the night. James clearly hadn't been up to any form of inquisition, so they had to rely on what Penhale had told Louisa about what he'd learned from their son.

"Martin, please sit down," Louisa repeated and, with a grunt, Martin dropped onto the sofa.

"Alright, I'm sitting. Now, will you please enlighten me as to what dogs have to do with what happened today?"

It was Louisa's turn to sigh. "According to Joe, James saw a sign for free puppies along the road when we were driving back from the football game. He was on the moor because he was trying to find it."

Martin was still trying to get his head around this. "Why was he trying to find the sign?"

"I suppose because he wanted . . . Martin, you know he's wanted a dog for a long time."

"Yes, we've discussed it many times." And the answer, Martin didn't need to add, had always been 'absolutely not.' Martin was not about to allow some snarling, dirty creature to live in his home.

He sat back against the cushions. As far as he was concerned, the issue of a dog was closed and had been closed for years. James knew that. So why had the boy suddenly become so enamored of seeing unknown free puppies that he would run away from home?

"You're the expert on children," he all but accused Louisa. "Explain this to me."

"I can't, Martin," Louisa said, her eyes starting to mist. "I don't know. I don't know why he ran off or why dogs were suddenly so important to him."

Louisa was obviously still stressed; he could hear it in her voice and see it in her body language. For a moment, he wondered if he should have given her a sedative as well. It had been a long day for both of them, made worse because they still didn't understand why James had taken off. And "free puppies" couldn't be the answer, no matter what that idiot – well, maybe not so much of an idiot, Martin corrected himself, given that the PC was the one who had found their son. No matter what Penhale had said, Martin finished his thought.

He forced himself not to be angry. James was home, safe in his bed, and relatively uninjured. It was as much as they could have hoped for. They'd been fortunate – more than fortunate – not only once, but now twice.

He motioned Louisa to sit next to him on the sofa. She hesitated for a second, then slipped beside him. Martin put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her closer.

"It's alright, Louisa. James is safe."

"But he might do it again. Martin, I can't take it; I can't bear to have him go missing again."

"I know," he soothed.

"We need to understand what happened, so it doesn't happen again."

"We'll just have to ask him when he's feeling stronger." Which, Martin well expected, would be later today when James awakened.

"Do you really think it's about a dog?" Louisa asked. "He wouldn't have run off just to get a dog . . . would he?"

"I'm sure . . . " At this point, Martin wasn't sure of anything. "Louisa, we're both tired. Let's go to bed and sort this in the morning."

"We can't go to sleep. What about James? What if he wakes up and needs us?"

Martin understood her worry. After the events of the day, there was a natural desire to keep James in their sight at all times. It was desirable, not possible. Difficult as it would be for both of him, and whether it was tonight or tomorrow or next week, they'd eventually have to let their son be on his own.

"He'll sleep through the night," he assured her.


	10. Chapter 10

It was close to noon on the morning after my night on the moor. I was sitting on the sofa with my foot, now in a tight bandage, resting on a pillow. I'd awakened only a short time ago. Dad had helped me get into the lavatory so I could do what I needed. He'd checked my arm and my ankle, then carried me downstairs, telling me to keep off my bum leg and promising me that, after we got x-rays at hospital this afternoon, I'd get a set of crutches. That had sounded awfully cool.

My excitement about getting the crutches died the minute I saw Mum. Her eyes were all red and I expected she'd spent the night crying about me, which made me incredibly sad. I could only think that, this time, I'd really done something dumb.

Mum had fixed me a huge breakfast– scrambled eggs, ham, strawberries, and a big blueberry muffin with the sweet stuff on top. She'd made all my favorites and she probably figured that since I hadn't eaten most of yesterday, I'd be really hungry by now.

I wasn't. I tried a few bites and then gave up. When Mum fretted that I must still be ill, Dad told her not to worry and that I'd eat when I was hungry.

Then he pulled up a chair right across from me and Mum sat next to me on the sofa. It was time for the "big talk" about what I'd done.

"So, James Henry, what happened yesterday?" Dad's voice was . . . calm. He didn't sound mad or even disappointed and I figured he'd be one or the other. It was as if he were asking me how my day at school had gone. Only we all knew we were talking about a lot more than a day at school.

I took a deep breath and started. I told Mum and Dad about the football game and how badly I'd sucked.

"I felt . . . like I'd let everyone down," I said. "Everyone knew it was my fault."

"James, that was not the only play in the game," Dad started. Mum cleared her throat and shook her head at him. He looked at her and, instead of saying whatever else he was probably going to say, he simple told me to go on.

I explained about how, when we'd come off the field, Billie's dog was right there for him. "Kippers was so excited just to see Billie. He didn't care that Billie had played like crap or that we'd lost the game."

Dad frowned at my use of the word "crap," but didn't interrupt me.

"Kippers was jumping up and down and barking and was so happy you'd have thought we'd won and it was all because of Billie. You could just tell that he loved Billy no matter what."

I glanced at my dad who seemed bored with my story. Mum, on the other hand, seemed to be trying to understand me.

I swallowed hard. "And I wanted that." There, I'd said it.

"James," Mum said, looking sadder than ever, "you know that we love you no matter what – no matter how well you play at football or how well you do in school. We love you all the time, no matter what."

"I know." And I did. I never doubted for a minute that my mum and dad both loved me, each in their own way of course. "But it's not the same." I voiced my thoughts aloud. "Take yesterday. You knew that I'd screwed up big time, so you felt sorry for me. Kippers didn't know we lost or how Billie played and didn't care; he just wanted to be with Billie and make him happy."

"Are you saying you aren't happy?" Mum asked.

"Having an animal is not a requirement for happiness," Dad added.

"It's not that." I didn't know how to explain myself, only that I had to try. "It's that I got to thinking about Billie's dog and how he's always there. Kippers doesn't have to work or fix supper or go shopping. He can hang around all day and be there whenever Billie wants him to be. To cheer him up and stuff like that."

It seemed so simple to me; why couldn't Mum and Dad understand?

"What I don't understand, James," Dad said as if reading my mind, "is what your friend's dog has to do with you running away from home and ending up alone on the moor at night."

"Well, you see, it's like this. I was sitting in my room thinking about the game and about Kippers and how great it would be if I had a dog like that. And then I remembered that I'd seen a sign for free puppies when we were driving home from the game."

"Why didn't you say something at the time?" Mum asked. "We could have stopped."

I licked my lips; I couldn't look at Mum or Dad, so I focused on my lap. "I knew I wasn't allowed to have a dog."

"Of course you aren't," Dad said and, out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mum again shake her head and give him one of "those" looks.

"Go on, James," she said.

"I could dream, couldn't I? And the more I thought about it the more I wanted . . . well, I could at least go see the puppies, only to look at them. That wouldn't hurt. I figured it couldn't be too far; I could get there and back before dark."

"Oh, James, why didn't you tell me? I would have taken you, gone with you."

"I . . ." It was hard to explain. How could I ask Mum to take me to see puppies when I knew I couldn't have one? And then she would have had to explain to Dad what we'd done and why she'd taken me, and knowing how he felt. . . it was all so complicated.

"What did you plan to do if you'd actually seen the dogs?" Dad asked and, given how stern he sounded, I didn't think any answer was going to be the right one was far as he was concerned.

I shrugged. "I dunno."

"That's not an answer, James."

I sighed. "I really don't know, Dad. I just wanted to hold a little dog, just for a minute, and pretend it was mine."

Dad shook his head as if he were doing his best to figure out this whole thing, and not having much luck. "And then?"

"Maybe tell you about it and try to convince you that I should have one." I sighed. "Or maybe just dream about what it would be like, you know, to have a dog of my own."

Dad shook his head and, when I looked at Mum, it was like she was going to cry all over again.

"So you ended up on the moor?" Dad prodded me.

Yeah, back to my story. "I couldn't find the sign for the puppies. Dunno why not. Must have been further than I remembered. So I kept walking and then it got dark and then I got lost and I didn't have my mobile. At first I was scared because it was cold and raining." I decided not to tell Mum and Dad about my crying as I didn't want them to think me a scared baby. "And then I thought about what you would do if you were stuck on the moor at night."

"And you thought I would throw rocks at cars?" Dad asked in a voice that made clear he would have done no such thing.

I shook my head. "I knew I needed to get a car to stop or I'd be out there alone all night. I didn't want to stand on the road because in the dark someone might run over me. And my leg was hurt so I couldn't run, and . . . well all I could think of was to throw something at the car so it would stop for me. And all I could find was rocks."

"That was . . . rather clever, wasn't it Martin?" Mum said and I was grateful that she at least didn't seem too sore with me.

Dad only scowled. "James," he started in a voice that meant I was in for a lecture. "You know how dangerous it is to throw objects at passing cars. You could have broken the windscreen. Someone could have been seriously injured, maybe even killed. Or the car might have run off the road and hit you."

It was the same thing the PC had said to me last night. "I know that now, Dad. I wasn't thinking about that at the time."

"Obviously not."

"I'm really sorry. I know what I did was wrong. I was wrong for running off without telling Mum and wrong for forgetting my mobile and wrong for going off to the moor and for throwing rocks at cars." I hung my head. "I guess you're going to ground me forever."

Neither of my parents said anything for a minute. I figured they were probably deciding my punishment and that I'd be best off keeping my own mouth shut.

Then I realized there was one more thing I needed to say. "I know what I did made you remember what happened when I was a baby, when that lady took off with me."

"Who told you about that?" Mum asked sharply.

"Penhale of course," Dad said, and I nodded to show he was right.

I looked at Mum. "The PC told me how scared you were the time before and now. I'm so sorry I did that to you. I didn't mean to . . . make you . . ." If I didn't stop myself, I was going to cr.

I did feel rotten, more than rotten. It was one thing to be stupid—I'd done that up good. It was something else to upset my mum. Dad, well, Dad could handle almost anything. Mum . . . I dearly loved Mum and the thought that I'd made her so scared and upset made me so sick I couldn't even bear to look at the oatmeal she'd made.

Mum reached over and hugged me and kissed my forehead. "Oh, James. I wish I could tell you how much I love you, how much both of us love you. You did scare us very badly. But you're safe now. Just promise me you'll never, ever do that again."

"I won't, Mum." And I meant it.


	11. Chapter 11

"Martin, what are we going to do?" Louisa asked, taking a small sip of her usual evening glass of Chardonnay. Early in their marriage, Martin had made known his displeasure with her use of alcohol. Over time, she'd agreed to limit her intake to a single glass in the evening and, provided she did, he'd agreed to keep his opinions on the subject to himself.

Martin glanced over at his wife, curled up on the sofa, feet tucked under her and a blanket spread across her lap. She looked as exhausted as he felt, and, given that neither of them had had much rest in the past thirty-six hours, probably was.

James was again asleep in his bed. The trip to hospital earlier in the day had revealed no broken bones and the orthopedist Martin had consulted had assured him that, with rest and proper care, the boy would be running down the football field again in a few weeks.

"What are we going to do about what?" Martin asked, taking a seat in a chair next to her.

"What are we going to do about getting a dog for James Henry?"

A dog? Where in the world had this idea come from? Martin frowned. "What do you mean? We've talked about this many times; we've repeatedly told him no."

"You heard him this morning talking about how much he wants one. It's why he ran off like he did. It's not some passing fad, Martin. Our son really wants a dog."

He tried to gauge her mood. Was she actually suggesting they consider getting a stupid animal? She well knew his views on the subject. And the fact that their son had run off to the moor with some half-baked idea to look for a dog hadn't changed his mind one iota.

"Louisa," he said, knowing she was emotionally drained and thus doing his best to be patient, "we are not going to reward our son's misbehavior. And we're definitely not going to bring a filthy, flea-ridden—"

Louisa slammed her glass onto the sofa table. "Stop it! Just stop it!"

Martin scowled first at the glass, relieved to see it hadn't shattered, then at her. "Stop what?" What in the world had gotten her so riled up? He hadn't seen her this animated since they'd had it out over James attending boarding school. He'd lost that argument; he didn't intend to lose this one.

She was obviously overtired; perhaps that was causing her not to think clearly. This undoubtedly was not the best time to have this discussion. Maybe a few days from now, when they were rested and she had come to her senses.

"First of all . . ." Louisa interrupted his thoughts. "Stop referring to dogs as filthy and flea-bitten."

Martin shrugged. "Well, they are." How could he forget that mangy thing that had spread zoonosis throughout the village? Or that vicious beast that lived with the odd brothers with salmonella and their father who thought he was their dead mother. The one that had been presented to him stuffed, for God's sake.

"No they're not," Louisa insisted. "Well, not all of them. We both know there are hundreds of clean and well-behaved dogs in this village living happily in people's homes. Including Kippers."

"Who?"

"Billie's dog."

Whatever. "Right. Well, I don't care about other homes, I care about ours. And we are not having a dog. Full stop. End of story." And that was that. The subject was not open to discussion. They should go upstairs and try to finally get a decent night's rest.

Martin picked up Louisa's nearly empty glass of wine and carried it to the kitchen. Behind him, he heard her scramble to her feet.

"Why not?" she asked, trailing behind him.

"Why not what?" he asked tiredly.

"Why can we not get a dog for our son?"

Martin sighed heavily and turned back to his wife. Was she not paying attention? "I just finished telling you—"

Louisa grabbed the wine glass away from him and pointedly poured some more wine, giving him a stare that dared him to say anything to her about it.

Martin scowled at her. She never had more than a glass, at least in his presence. Which told him that she was gearing up for a good row. After their harrowing nearly two days, it was the last thing either of them needed.

"Martin, you're not being rational. James is an only child. Our only child. Can't you understand that sometimes he gets lonely?"

"How can he be lonely? We're here. You're here all day." Martin thought back on his own childhood years. He'd been shuttled off to boarding school, seeing his parents only on holiday. And even then, his father had made excuses about work and his mother . . . well, she hadn't even bothered with the excuses. She simply hadn't been there.

He and Louisa weren't like that. She'd eventually given up her job first as head teacher, and then as a teacher, in order to spend more time with James. It was one of the agreements they'd reached in deciding not to send him off to boarding school. And Martin – well, he'd sacrificed a renewed surgical career largely to stay here with Louisa and his son. Instead of being the world-renowned expert that he could have been, he was . . . here. Most days, he didn't regret his decision. He enjoyed spending time with Louisa and James more than he'd ever expected. Still, on days like this . . .

"Parents are . . . parents." Louisa interrupted his thoughts. "We love him, but we also punish him."

"As well we should, when such punishment is deserved." Martin inwardly cringed at the memories of the belts and whippings he'd endured at the hands of his father. He and Louisa had made sure that, even though their son was occasionally disciplined for misbehavior, that punishment was never physical in nature.

"Right." Louisa broke into his thoughts. "We're his parents. And that's why James needs someone – or something – that won't judge or punish him."

"He has his friends." Louisa had assured him that their son was popular with his peers, for which Martin was grateful, given his own lack of success in that area during his youth. "They seem to be about all the time."

"Yes, and friends can be kind and friends can be cruel, especially at his age. I told you what they were like after football yesterday. We felt sorry for him and his so-called friends blamed him for what happened. I think he could use a dog that would give him unconditional love. Not to mention, it wouldn't hurt to give him the responsibility of having a pet to care for. He's old enough now. And it wouldn't hurt us to have a dog in the house."

Martin tried to process those last sentences. Louisa thought James needed a dog to provide unconditional love and responsibility. As far as he was concerned, there were plenty of ways to achieve both goals without bringing an animal into their home.

"So you want to reward him for what he did yesterday?" Martin asked sarcastically, trying a new tack with which she couldn't readily disagree. "That will certainly teach him not to do it again."

"James said he was sorry – over and over again, I might add. And, if a night out alone on the moor won't teach him what he did was wrong, nothing will."

Martin grudgingly had to agree with that. He reflected on his emotions over the past day. The fear of not knowing where their son was to the relief at his being found safe to the anger at his running off to the grudging admiration for the cleverness he'd exercised in throwing rocks at the car to be noticed.

James was a child. A child who'd stupidly acted on a momentary half-cocked idea. Yes, the boy had always had a fondness for animals. Still, there was a difference between taking him to the zoo twice a year and actually brining an animal into their house.

"I still don't understand why the boy needs a dog. I was an only child and I managed just fine without one."

"Martin, from what you've told me, I don't think your upbringing is the model we want for James Henry. And, who knows, maybe you would have been better off if you'd had a dog growing up."

"I sincerely doubt it."

"Well, we're not talking about your childhood, we're talking about James. And I for one think it would do him good – do all of us good – to have a dog in the house."

Martin could not believe what he was hearing. She would not let this go. "You're not serious?"

Louisa's eyes blazed and her expression had morphed to the one she used when she was ready to debate him. "I am very serious," she said, favoring him with her 'teacher's look.' "Give me one valid reason that we shouldn't consider getting a dog for our son."

"I don't want one," he replied simply, as if that closed off the subject.

She shook her head. "I said a valid reason."

Alright, if she wanted to play this game. "They're dirty—"

"Not if they stay indoors. Besides, if the dog gets dirty, James can bathe him."

"They carry disease."

"And your patients don't?" Martin couldn't help but notice that, even though her words were biting, Louisa's tone remained calm and civil. In a way, that made the situation worse. It was easier to argue with her when she was angry in that there was at least a chance she would quickly get exasperated and give up. When she was in one of these moods . . . debating him point for point . . . he realized with chagrin, the outcome often didn't go his way.

"Besides," she added, "studies have shown that people are more likely to infect their dogs than the other way around and that dogs owners are happier and healthier than those who don't have dogs."

One thing he'd learned over the years – Louisa loved to cite "studies" to make her point. Probably payback for when he'd tried that same tactic in the early years they were together.

"Dogs make a mess," he countered. "Our house will look like a barn."

"It won't take long for the dog to be housebroken. In the meantime, James will learn to pick up after his puppy."

"Dogs bark."

Louisa sighed heavily. "Yes, Martin, I'll grant you that dogs do on occasion bark." She took another long sip from her glass of wine. "However, they also are devoted, loving creatures who can bring a lot of joy into a home while helping teach a child about responsibility."

Martin shook his head. What was it with Louisa on this subject? Why was she suddenly so adamant about bringing an animal into their home? "It will have to go out when James is at school."

"And when you're at work, I might add," she said with a triumphant look. "I'll help James with the dog; you won't even have to touch it, if you don't want to."

He sincerely doubted that. He could only imagine the times that Louisa and James Henry were away and he would be left alone with the creature. He'd learned to change diapers; he'd learned to tolerate birthday parties with a dozen toddlers; he'd learned to visit the zoo far more often than he would have liked. This was something else entirely.

Martin knew he was losing this argument and really didn't understand why. He didn't understand why Louisa didn't see that having a dog was a terrible idea. A goldfish maybe, but a dog?

Still, what choice did he have? To insist that they do things his way simply because it was what he wanted? Even after ten years of living together, he and Louisa still didn't see eye-to-eye on many subjects. Compromise had never been easy for either of them, and the first few years had been especially trying. Now, they tried to limit their serious rows to issues about which one felt particularly impassioned. Like getting a dog.

He'd imposed his will on this subject for the past decade and, until today, Louisa had put up only token resistance. Now, obviously, it had become a point of major contention. Had the moment finally come for him to give in?

Martin tried imagining a dog in their home and shuddered at the thought. "You really mean to do this?" he asked, hoping against hope that Louisa would tell him she'd merely been joking, that she wasn't really serious about this insane idea.

"Yes," she said, and Martin's hopes were dashed. "Not right away," she added. "I agree with you, Martin, that we can't reward what he did yesterday by immediately giving him what he wants. But in a few weeks time, when things are back to normal, we can talk to him about it."

Talk about it. There was a glimmer of hope. Maybe this was simply a knee-jerk to what James had done yesterday. Maybe Louisa hadn't thought this through. Maybe in the intervening weeks, he could convince her that this was a terrible idea. Maybe . . .

He watcher her steely gaze of triumph as she again sipped from her wine. Maybe, Martin thought to himself, but not probably.

* * *

**Author's Note: I realize some of you believe that there is no possible way that DM would ever allow a dog in his house. And, at the time of the current series, I would agree. However, a decade has passed and maybe, just maybe, Martin's view of the world has softened a little. At least in my little world of FF it has. And thanks for all of your great comments! They are much appreciated.**


	12. Chapter 12

Author's Note: Sorry for the multiple notices about this story. It's one of those trying days at fanfic dot net . . .

* * *

It turned out that I was really good at something. Maybe not terrific, maybe not great. But really good. At geography of all things. Who would have guessed?

It all started when my teacher, Mrs. Bradford, told us about the geography bee in Truro. She said she needed two kids from our class to represent Portwenn Primary Year 4. When she started looking around the room for volunteers, I made sure to slide down as far as possible in my desk. No one wanted to stick their hand up and show up our mates. And, besides, it would certainly mean a lot of extra studying and stuff.

When none of us volunteered, she threatened to pick somebody. Still none of us raised our hands. So, boy was I surprised when, after class, she came up to me and asked me to go.

"But Mrs. Bradford. Please don't pick me," I pleaded. "Besides, I don't know much about geography."

"Of course you do, James," she said. "You have a 97 average, highest in the class."

I couldn't deny that. Even so, that was just passing her stupid tests. For a contest, one for all of Cornwall, I'd have to study a lot more.

In the end, she convinced me to go, along with Margot Oliver, whom I had to admit was pretty darn smart. We had geography of North and Central America, which seemed pretty simple at first because there weren't all that many countries. Then I found out how big the States really was and how much different geography there could be in one country.

We practiced after school every day and, when I told Mum and Dad that I was going, they worked with me at night. I'd always thought Dad was smarter than Mum at everything. Not at geography – Mum was a whiz. I discovered she knew all sorts of things, like the only two countries in South America that didn't touch the ocean.

At first, it was pretty simple as I learned stuff like which countries were on which continents, the capitals, and the longest rivers and the highest mountains.

Then it started getting harder. I studied where mountain ranges started and stopped, the oceans into which rivers emptied, the largest and smallest Caribbean islands, which countries and states and provinces bordered what. It was a lot to learn!

Margot and I were a team, which meant that our scores were counted together to decide who won and who lost. I definitely wasn't going to let a girl show me up, so I studied even harder. For a whole month.

When it was finally time for the bee, I felt that I knew everything; I'd practiced so hard that nothing could stump me. I wasn't so sure about Margot. I knew she hadn't studied as hard as I had and, when we did the practice bee with Mrs. Bradford, she missed a lot of questions that I knew the answer to. The problem was that, in the bee, even though we were a team, we couldn't help each other. So I could only hope that her being really smart would be enough.

The bee was in Truro, of course, and my Mum and Dad drove me there early Saturday morning. It was the first time I'd been on the moor with both of them since I'd run off almost two months ago. I'd been punished for that of course. It was kind of hard to ground me since I'd been on crutches and not really able to go anywhere anyway. So, they'd taken away my tellie and computer for two weeks and made me sign in and out every time I left the house other than for school. It wasn't nearly as bad as it could have been and I guessed Mum and Dad figured that being stuck by myself on the moor was punishment enough.

In the end, the questions at the bee were easier than I expected and I didn't miss a one. Margo missed two, which meant we ended up getting second place, when we should have won. Still, I'd aced my part. Margot knew it. Mrs. Bradford knew it. Mum and Dad knew it.

And it was really neat that Dad had come to watch me, on a Saturday no less. And even better that he hadn't had any doctor emergencies to call him away.

"James Henry, you were wonderful," Mum gushed, hugging me as I came off the stage with the second place medal in my hand. Even though it wasn't a big trophy of a globe like the winning team got, I still felt really good.

"We're so proud of you," she added.

"Well done, James," Dad said and cracked a big smile. "You answered every question correctly."

"Thanks, Dad. We should have won, though," I complained. "If stupid Margot hadn't—"

"James!" Mum put up a hand to stop me. "I'm sure Margot did her best. Remember how it feels when you let down your friends and classmates."

I gulped, knowing that she was reminding me how bad I'd felt after the football game, the time when I'd let the other team score the winning goal. It was hard to believe that was more than a month ago. I shivered a bit at the memory – it seemed more like last week.

"Yes, Mum," I answered.

"Would you like to stop for ice cream on the way home?" Mum asked as we were walking to the car. It made me feel good that she wanted to take me out when I'd won, not only when I'd lost.

Dad frowned at her – he wasn't a big fan of sweets – but didn't argue.

"No, it's alright. I'm not really hungry."

Dad frowned even more and reached out a hand to my forehead. "Are you ill?"

I shook away. "No. Really," I added. "I ate too much cake." They'd had a party for us after everyone was done with cake and biscuits and sweets and I'd eaten far too much.

"All right then," Dad said, opening the car. "Let's get on home."

We drove back across the moor and this time, knowing how far I'd walked, it seemed much bigger than it had before. Whatever had I been thinking trying to walk here on my own?

Neither Mum nor Dad said anything about it, though I expect they wanted to. Instead we talked about our class science project. We were going to find out whether the shape of an ice cube made it melt faster or slower. I suspected Dad – and probably Mum too – already knew the answer.

Last week, we'd tested whether covering our hands when we sneezed kept us from spreading germs. Dad hadn't been too pleased when he'd heard about that one – until I told him that Mrs. Bradford had told us the most important thing was to wash our hands really well. I think that probably stopped him from having a word with my teacher.

"Martin," Mum said from in front of me. "Remember we were going to stop off on our way home."

"Hmm," Dad said.

"Martin," Mum said again, in a voice she often used when she wasn't too pleased with what I'd done. I wondered what Dad might have done. "We called them and said we were coming."

"Oh, all right," Dad said, sounding none too pleased.

"Are we visiting someone?" I asked.

"Yes," Mum replied.

Dad turned the car onto a road that I knew led to Wadebridge. About the only time we went here was to see Dr. Nordquist. I still didn't understand why Mum and I sometimes went to him as our GP and sometimes Dad took care of us. I supposed it must make sense to someone.

"Who are we visiting?" I asked. I doubted we were going to see the doctor and, far as I could tell, Mum and Dad didn't have a lot of friends in Wadebridge.

"Just be patient, James," Mum said over her shoulder. "I think we turn just ahead, on the right," she said to Dad.

A few minutes later, we pulled up to a cottage I'd never seen before. It was about the same size as ours only there was so much more land. It was kind of like Aunt Ruth's farm only without the farm.

"Where are we?" I asked, taking off my seatbelt.

"There's something we want to show you," Mum said, stepping out of the car. "Come on."

I jumped out quickly, curious as to what was going on. When I looked back, I saw Dad was still in the car. Mum noticed too, because she called him out on it.

"Come on, Martin."

He rolled down the window. "I'd rather wait in the car."

"You promised."

"Oh all right. If you insist," he said, pulling himself out of the car and not looking too happy about it.

Mum took me by the hand and we walked up to the front door. She rung the bell and I heard the sound of a dog barking. The door was opened a few seconds later by a woman about Dad's age. I was quite sure I'd never seen her before.

"You must be Mrs. Ellingham. I'm Mrs. Prescott. And you." She looked down at me and smiled. "You must be James."

How did this woman know my name? And what in the world were we doing here?

"Oh, and Dr. Ellingham," she added as Dad came up behind us. "Welcome. Please come through."

With a quick prod from Mum, I stepped through and gazed around; from the inside it looked like any other cottage.

"In here," she said, drawing us toward a closed door. The instant she opened it, a small dog ran out. Must have been the one that was barking.

I watched it run past and head for Dad. I almost laughed as Dad tried his best to keep it from touching him.

Suddenly, there was the sound of a lot more barking. It was coming from inside the room! As I entered, I couldn't stop my eyes from growing wide.

The room was filled with dogs – or at least it seemed that way. There must have been at least six of them all running around like crazy. I looked back at Mum who gave me an encouraging smile and at Dad who . . . I couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"Puppies!" I said, unable to keep the smile off my face.

"Yes," Mrs. Prescott said from behind me. "Just five weeks old. That's Mary there." She pointed toward a larger dog who was doing her best to keep track of her puppies who were running all around every which way. "She's the proud mum."

I gazed longingly at the puppies; there were five of them.

"Would you like to hold one?" Mrs. Prescott asked.

"Oh very much, ma'am," I said and then stopped in my tracks to look back at my parents. Well, at my dad.

"Go on, James," Mum said.

I sat down on the floor and right away the little dogs came running up to me. Mrs. Prescott scooped up Mary in her arms. Within a few seconds, I had little puppies all over me – licking my hands and my face and crawling over my legs and—"

"Do you like them?" Mrs. Prescott asked.

"I love them! All of them."

"They're Norwich Terriers," Mrs. Prescott explained. "They won't grow much larger than five kilos and they don't shed a lick. Very friendly and very good with children—"

I stopped listening to her and instead grabbed one of the puppies and held it right up to my face. I opened my mouth to say something and, before I knew what was happening, the puppy had stuck its tongue right in my mouth.

"James!" Dad said. "Don't let it do that. Think of all those germs!"

"It's alright, Dad," I said.

"Which one do you like?" Mrs. Prescott asked.

"I like them all."

"Would you like one?" Mum asked.

I almost dropped the dog I was holding. Would I like one? A dog? A puppy? Mum couldn't be serious; no way Dad would go for it. I couldn't even look at him.

"James?" Mum asked.

"I know I can't have one," I said, putting the dog back on the floor. No use getting to like any of them as I'd just have to give it up. "Dad said."

"What if your father has changed his mind?"

My eyes swung toward him. Dad change his mind? About this? He would actually allow me to have a dog? It couldn't be. Could it? "Dad?" I asked, looking up at him with hope in my eyes. "Could I really have a dog? Of my own?"

"We'll have to discuss it," Dad said and, from his expression, I had no idea what he really meant.

"Martin . . ."

Dad stared at Mum for a long second then cleared his throat. "However, it's not out of the question. We'd have to talk about caring for a dog – feeding it, taking it out, brushing it, that sort of thing."

I couldn't believe it. Dad was actually considering it.

"It wouldn't be straight away," Mum cautioned. "As your father says, we need to discuss taking care of a dog."

"That's right," Mrs. Prescott chimed in. "Taking care of a puppy is a big responsibility. And, in any event, these kids won't be ready to leave their mum for at least another two weeks."

I was no longer listening. I could only think that I might actually have a dog, like Kippers. Well, not exactly like Kippers. This would be a . . . what did she call it? Norfolk Terrier? And it would be mine . . . all mine. I'd do whatever my dad asked. Whatever it took. Maybe, just maybe, I could have a real live puppy!

Dad would let me! And Mum. Even though I'd done a very bad thing in running off, even though I'd been very wrong, my mum and dad were alright. They were going to let me have a dog.

I knew how much this . . . how much my dad was . . . giving up. He no more wanted a dog than I wanted to spend another night on the moor.

He was leaving it to me. I had to make this work. I had to make sure that I did all the right things with a dog that I hadn't done when I'd run off like I did. I had to be more "adult" now – now that I would be the "dad" of this dog. And I swore to myself that I'd do whatever my mum and dad asked.

I watched the puppies run around and couldn't stop myself from smiling. I could choose one. It would be mine! All mine!

I saw Mum smile. And Dad . . .

* * *

I watched my wife and son snuggling with that blasted puppy. It had taken James nearly an hour but he'd finally chosen the dog that, it now appeared, would be his. Ours, I thought with a mental groan.

I could only imagine what our life would be like with dog. Chewed up slippers. Soiled carpets. Days and nights of barking. It was bound to be a nightmare.

Normally, I would be miserable and, in a way, I was. But as I watched my lovely wife and my dear son, smiling and laughing and playing with that . . . that creature,

I knew without a doubt that they were both overjoyed. And that my giving in to letting them have this dog – putting their desires ahead of my own – had led to this state. I might rue my decision for the next decade – or however long that animal would live. But for the moment, Louisa and James Henry were happy. And, for now at least, that was enough to make me happy.

* * *

**Author's notes:**

**In case anyone is interested, the two landlocked countries in South America are Paraguay and Bolivia.**

**For those of you unfamiliar with the Norwich Terrier, you can find out more at under the breed. Unfortunately, I can't seem to link it here.**

**The Norfolk Terrier, to which JH refers, is actually a distinct breed for the Norwich Terrier. It's e****asy for non-terrier fanatics to get them confused, as JH does in my story.**

**Finally, thanks to all of you who took the time to post comments about my story. It is very gratifying and provides the impetus to keep writing. Also, a huge shout out to my beta jd517 who poked me when needed but, most importantly, encouraged me at every turn.**


End file.
